E  CRIME  OF 
HENRY  VANE 


THE  CRIME  OF  HENRY  VANE 


THE    CRIME    OF 


HENRY    VANE 


A   STUDY   WITH   A   MORAL 


BY  J.   S.   OF   DALE 

Author  of  "Guerndale" 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1884 


COPYRIGHT,  1884, 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co., 
Nos.  10  to  20  Astor  Place,  New  York. 


THE 

CRIME  OF  HENRY  VANE. 


" Make  a  fool  of  yourself,  like  Vane." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  that  is  fair  to  Vane,"  said 
John ;  "  no  one  can  go  through  what  he  did, 
and  keep  perfectly  sound." 

"  I'll  leave  it  to  the  crowd,"  said  the  Major ; 
"what  say  you,  boys?  " 

All  were  unanimous.  There  was  no  excuse 
for  a  crime  like  Vane's.  Evidently  they  all 
knew  Vane.  He  was  damned  without  one  dis- 
senting voice. 

"  Who  was  Vane  ?  "  said  I,  "  and  what  did 
he  do  ?  Which  commandment  did  he  break  ? 
He  must  have  made  merry  with  them  all — or, 
rather,  have  kept  them  all  to  get  such  a  judg- 
ment in  this  club." 


1702102 


2  Henry  Vane. 

A  babel  of  voices  arose.  All  these  men 
were  intimate  friends ;  and  they  were  sitting 
in  one  of  the  small  smoking-rooms  of  the  Co- 
lumbian Club  in  New  York.  John  had  just  en- 
gaged himself  to  be  married,  and  we  had  given 
him  a  dinner ;  or,  as  Pel  Schuyler  put  it,  we 
were  "  recording  his  mortgage."  Schuyler  was 
a  real-estate  broker. 

"  Now,  look  here,"  said  John,  "  how  many  of 
you  fellows  know  Vane  personally  ?  " 

No  one,  apparently.  There  was  a  moment's 
silence.  Then  the  Major  spoke  up.  "  Bah !  " 
said  he,  "  I  have  heard  the  story  these  ten 
years."  "  So  have  I ! "  chimed  in  several 
others.  "  My  brother  knew  Vane  in  Paris," 
said  Pel.  "  I  had  it  from  Mrs.  Malgam  her- 
self," simpered  Daisy  Blake,  fatuously. 

"  Well,  at  least,  I  know  nothing  of  it,"  I  said ; 
"  tell  it  for  my  benefit,  John." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  they,  "  let's  hear  the  cor- 
rect and  only  version  according  to  John." 

It  was  that  critical  moment  in  a  dinner,  when 
the  fireworks  of  champagne  have  sputtered 


Henry  Vane.  3 

out,  and  the  burgundy  invites  to  somnolence. 
All  had  lit  their  cigars,  and  felt  more  like 
listening  than  talking.  John  did  not  smoke. 

"  I  will,"  said  he.  "  At  that  time,  I  was  his 
best — I  may  say,  his  only  friend." 

"And  I  say,  still,"  said  the  Major,  "he 
acted  like  a  fool  and  criminally.  There  can  be 
no  excuse  for  such  conduct." 

John  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  began.  Of 
course,  I  do  not  mean  that  he  told  the  whole  story 
just  as  I  have  written  it.  He  related  the  bare 
facts,  with  little  comment  and  without  conver- 
sations. Whether  you  condemned  the  man  or 
excused  him,  John  thought,  his  story  might  be 
understood,  even  if  his  folly  were  not  forgiven. 
The  crowd  at  the  club  did  neither  ;  and,  per- 
haps, their  judgment  is  the  judgment  of  the 
world ;  and  the  world  is  probably  right.  But 
we  may  learn  from  folly ;  it  is  sometimes  more 
suggestive  than  common  sense.  There  is  the 
ordinary  success  and  there  is  the  exceptional 
failure  ;  that  is  pleasanter,  but  this  is  more 
instructive.  Extreme  cases  fix  the  law. 


4  Henry  Vane. 

The  world  is  probably  right ;  and,  to  those 
of  us  who  are  healthily  adapted  to  our  envi- 
ronment, the  world  is  enough.  Blessed  are 
they  who  are  fitted,  for  they  shall  survive.  The 
world  is  enough ;  but  the  poet  sang,  love  is 
enough.  Shall  we  say,  love  is  surplusage? 
The  world  is  always  right ;  and  how  virtuously 
the  healthy  world  reproves  what  is  morbid ! 
How  all  the  world  unites  in  condemning  him 
who  is  not  fully  content  with  itself !  For  such 
an  one  it  cannot  even  spare  its  pity.  There 
is  a  kind  of  personal  animus  in  its  con- 
tempt. 

Let  us  hasten  to  join  our  little  voices  to 
swell  the  universal  song.  So  John  told  the 
story — plainly  and  coldly,  the  more  adversely 
for  the  lingering  doubt ;  so  we  tell  the  story, 
and  the  doubt  lessens  as  we  state  the  facts,  and 
quite  vanishes  as  we  reach  the  end.  It  is 
the  story  of  a  common  crime,  and  the  crimi- 
nal is  no  friend  of  ours,  as  he  was  of  John's. 
Moreover,  Schuyler  called  the  criminal  a 
fool. 


I. 


IN  April,  1873,  Henry  Vane  was  sitting  on 
the  perron  of  a  small  summer  house  in  Brit- 
tany, poking  the  pebbles  in  the  driveway  with 
his  cane.  He  had  been  there  for  half  an  hour, 
and  there  was  nothing  in  his  appearance  and 
attitude  to  indicate  that  he  would  not  be  there 
for  half  an  hour  more.  There  was  one  red 
pebble,  in  particular,  which  he  had  an  espe- 
cial desire  to  prod  out  from  among  the  others, 
which  were  gray.  But  it  was  round  and  slip- 
pery, and  slid  about  the  ferruled  end  of  his 
cane.  After  poking  it  some  time,  he  desisted 
and  held  the  cane  in  his  hands  in  front  of  his 
knees,  which,  as  the  next  step  of  the  porch  was 
not  much  lower,  were  as  high  as  his  chin.  "  C'en 
est  fait  de  moi,"  he  muttered. 

Henry  Vane,  though  a  New  Yorker,  had  been 
brought  up  in  France,  and  in  the  French  lan- 
guage his  thoughts  came  most  readily.  He 


6  Henry  Vane. 

had  just  seen,  for  the  last  time,  an  old  friend 
of  his — a  girl,  whom  he  had  known  in  infancy, 
in  childhood,  in  maidenhood ;  and  whom  it 
seemed  incredible,  impossible,  intolerable,  that 
he  should  know  no  more.  It  was  upon  the 
piazza  of  her  uncle's  house  that  he  was  sit- 
ting ;  and  she  was  to  leave  the  next  day  for 
Switzerland. 

He  was  of  age  that  day,  and  was  "  his  own 
man  now."  "And  hers,"  he  thought,  bit- 
terly. She  did  not  love  him,  however;  and, 
at  his  request,  had  just  told  him  so. 

"Decidement,  e'en  est  fait  de  moi,"  he  mut- 
tered again,  and  gave  the  pebble  a  vicious 
dig,  which  sent  it  flying  into  an  acacia  bush 
that  stood  in  a  green  tub  by  the  side  of  the 
driveway. 

He  was  twenty-one  that  day,  and  had  come 
into  his  fortune.  His  fortune  was  not  much — 
four  thousand  a  year,  left  him  by  his  grand- 
mother and  invested  in  government  bonds. 
Still,  twenty  thousand  francs  made  him  dis- 
tinctly a  rentier ;  and  twenty  thousand  francs 


Henry  Vane.  7 

seemed  a  good  deal,  shared  with  the  girl  he 
loved.  But  it  seemed  very  little  for  him 
alone ;  genteel  poverty  in  fact.  He  certainly 
could  neither  yacht  nor  race.  Travelling — ex- 
cept en  etudiant — was  equally  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. 

Vane  was  a  flippant  young  fellow,  with  a 
French  education  ;  fond  of  the  world,  of  which, 
as  he  then  thought,  he  knew  much.  Yet  the 
Figaro  and  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  and  the 
Palais-Eoyal,  or  even  the  Frangais,  did  not 
seem  to  satisfy  him,  that  day.  And  all  for  a 
little  "  Mees  Anglaise  ! "  How  his  friends 
would  laugh  at  him  !  He  was  very  young — 
they  would  say ;  very  young  for  a  grande  pas- 
sion. And  then  they  would  laugh  again.  But 
Vane  felt  sure  that  he  should  never  get  over  it. 

What  the  deuce  did  fellows  do  in  his  posi- 
tion ?  He  felt  a  wild  desire  for  adventure  and 
excitement ;  but  excitement  and  adventure 
were  expensive ;  unless  there  happened  to  be 
a  war,  and  you  went  officially.  But  he  had  not 
many  illusions  of  romance  in  war.  He  knew 


8  Henry  Vane. 

men  who  had  been  at  Woerth  and  Gravelotte. 
Then  there  was  travel.  But  this,  also,  was 
expensive.  Old  Prunier,  the  Professor,  had 
made  an  expedition  through  Soudan  the  year 
before,  and  it  had  cost  him  eight  hundred 
thousand  francs.  Moreover,  you  had  to  be 
up  on  rocks  and  beetles  and  things,  to  make 
your  trip  of  any  use  to  the  world.  And  Vane 
had  not  yet  given  up  all  idea  of  being  of  use  in 
the  world.  Besides,  even  Prunier's  expedition 
had  not  ended  in  much,  except  a  row  with  the 
Portuguese  missionaries  on  the  subject  of  the 
slave  trade.  These  Christian  slavers  had  met 
Prunier's  remonstrances  with  the  plausible  ar- 
gument that  it  was  better  for  the  negroes  to 
be  slaves  in  a  Christian  country,  and  save  their 
souls,  than  free  on  earth  and  damned  when 
they  died.  Prunier  had  consequently  reported 
a  crying  need  for  a  better  article  of  mission- 
ary in  Central  Africa.  But  Vane  could  not  go 
as  a  missionary.  He  felt  that  his  confidence 
in  Providence,  at  that  moment,  was  not  hardy 
enough  to  bear  transplanting  into  the  native 


Henry  Vane.  9 

South  African  mind,  through  the  medium  of 
a  Turanian  dialect. 

He  might  seek  the  land  of  his  nativity,  and 
make  his  four  thousand  a  year,  eight  thousand. 
His  father's  business,  for  the  moment,  lay  in 
Bellefontaine.  He  did  not  in  the  least  know 
where  Bellefontaine  was,  but  the  name  had  a 
civilized  sound.  And  she  was  going  to  Switz- 
erland. 

Vane  must  have  clenched  his  hands  at  this 
point ;  for  he  felt  a  decided  pricking  in  his  left 
forefinger.  And  he  observed  several  thorns 
on  the  stem  of  the  rose  she  had  given  him. 
For  she  had  given  him  a  rose.  That  much 
favor  had  been  shown  him.  He  got  into  his 
mother's  little  phaeton  and  drove  home — with 
his  rose.  So  far,  his  investments  in  life  had 
not  been  successful.  The  account  with  fortune 
might  read  somewhat  like  this — Debtor,  an  En- 
glish girl :  to  ten  years'  love  and  an  indefinite 
amount  of  devotion  and  sentiment.  Creditor, 
by  the  English  girl :  one  rose  (with  thorns). 
That  is,  if  he  had  put  the  Dr.  and  Cr.  sides 


10  Henry  Vane,. 

right.     He  never  could  remember  which  was 

• 

which.  At  all  events,  the  returns  on  his  in- 
vestment were  not  large.  And  he,  with  his 
uncertainty  about  debtor  and  creditor,  to  think 
of  competing  with  the  practical  Yankee  of 
Bellefontaine !  No  ;  he  would  leave  his  four 
thousand  a  year  where  it  was — a  somewhat  in- 
significant part  of  the  national  debt.  Mean- 
time, what  would  become  of  him?  What 
should  he  do?  He  felt  an  idle  outsider's 
curiosity  to  know  what  the  deuce  he  would  do. 
Of  one  thing  he  felt  certain,  his  orbit  in 
life  would  be  highly  eccentric.  He  had  no 
raison  d'etre ;  and  it  is  difficult  to  predict  the 
direction  taken  by  a  body  without  raison 
d'etre.  The  curve  of  such  a  comet  has  no 
equation.  He  could  no  longer  view  life  with 
gravity ;  and  it  is  quite  impossible  to  calcu- 
late the  orbit  of  a  body  without  gravity.  He 
might  bring  up  anywhere  from  Orion  to  the 
Great  Bear.  Only  one  thing  was  certain — he 
could  not,  for  the  present,  bring  up  in  Switz- 
erland; and  yet,  oddly  enough,  that  seemed 


Henry  Vane.  11 

to  be  the  only  part  of  any  possible  terrestrial 
orbit  that  had  an  attraction.  But  attraction 
decreases  as  the  square  of  the  distance.  As- 
suming, for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  he  was 
now  two  miles  from  her,  and  loved  her  with 
his  whole  heart ;  if  he  were  twelve  thousand 
miles  away,  he  would  love  her  only  one 
divided  by  the  square  of  six  thousand — only 
one  thirty- six-millionth  part  as  much.  In 
other  words,  he  would  have  thirty-five  million 
nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  thousand  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  thirty-six  millionths 
of  his  heart  left — left  to  bestow  upon  the 
dusky  beauties  of  the  Pacific.  Damn  the 
dusky  beauties  of  the  Pacific.  He  would  see 
his  sister  Mary.  After  all,  she  was  dearer  to 
him  than  the  dusky  beauties  of  the  Pacific 
could  possibly  be. 

When  the  boy  arrived  home,  he  drove  to 
the  stable,  and  alighting,  threw  the  reins  to  a 
groom.  He  was  perfectly  sure  that  his  life 
was  broken ;  but  a  groom  is  a  necessary  ad- 
junct of  any  life  at  all.  He  rolled  a  cigarette 


12  Henry  Vane. 

and  strolled  toward  the  house,  still  holding 
the  rose,  by  the  stem,  between  the  first  and 
second  fingers  of  his  left  hand.  Momentarily 
his  thoughts  had  wandered  from  the  English 
girl ;  he  was  still  entirely  busied  in  construct- 
ing a  proper  denouement  for  himself.  The  ro- 
mance of  his  life,  he  felt,  was  gone ;  but  he 
desired  that  his  career  should  be  consistent 
with  his  tragic  part  in  life.  She  had  left  him 
enough  self-esteem  for  that. 
So  he  entered  the  house. 


II. 


next  few  weeks  seemed  long  enough  to 
J-  Vane ;  but,  fortunately,  we  may  make 
them  short.  They  must  be  told;  they  were 
part  of  his  life  ;  how  large  a  part,  no  one — 
possibly  not  even  himself — ever  knew. 

When  Vane  entered  the  main  door,  which 
Frangois,  the  old  butler,  did  not  open  for  him 
as  usual,  he  saw  nothing  of  his  mother.  One 
or  two  of  her  shawls  were  lying,  as  if  hastily 
thrown  off,  on  the  carved  oak  chair  in  the  hall. 
The  day  was  cool,  and  the  embers  of  the 
morning  fire  were  still  red  in  the  chimney- 
place.  The  cigarette  did  not  satisfy  him ;  so 
he  pulled  out  a  cigar,  and  looking  for  a  lighter, 
noticed  a  yellow  envelope  near  him,  back 
downward  on  the  floor ;  close  by  it  was  a  thin 
sheet  of  paper.  Taking  this,  he  was  about  to 
twist  it  up,  when  he  saw  that  it  was  a  tele- 
gram. He  opened  it  and  read  his  name,  and 


14  Henry  Vane. 

the  message,  "  Mary  is  dead.  Tell  your  mother 
for  us.  Pray,  come  directly.  Gresham." 

When  the  servants  came  in,  they  found  him 
standing  by  the  fireplace.  "  Yes,"  they  said  to 
him,  "  Madame  had  left  for  Dieppe  that  morn- 
ing. She  said  nothing,  but  that  Mr.  Henry 
should  follow  her  to  England.  Francois  had 
accompanied  her.  Mr.  Henry  would  have  the 
carriage  immediately.  But  surely  Mr.  Henry 
would  dine  before  departing." 

No ;  he  would  go  directly.  Thomas  must 
pack  his  portmanteau.  "And,  Thomas,  lay  out 
a  black  suit — all  in  black,  you  understand  ?  " 
He  would  take  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  biscuit. 
"  And,  Thomas,  all  letters  for  any  one  were  to 
be  forwarded  to  him  at  Sir  Thomas  Gresham's, 
The  Eyotts,  Eushey,  Lincolnshire.  Stop ;  he 
would  write  the  address  on  a  card."  So  he 
caught  the  evening  mail  from  Bennes,  and  the 
night  tidal  steamer  from  Dieppe.  And  the 
gray  English  fog  at  sunrise  the  next  morning 
found  him  off  Newhaven,  still  pacing  the 
deck. 


Henry  Vane.  15 

Into  the  cloud  of  London  at  nine;  out  at 
ten,  and  flying  through  Essex  cornfields  and 
Cambridgeshire  fens.  There  had  been  heavy 
rains  the  night  before,  and  the  country  was 
soggy  and  saturated,  with  white  gleams  of 
water  over  the  land.  The  hay  was  swashing 
in  the  fields  like  seaweed.  Then  the  great 
church  of  Ely  broke  the  horizon,  and  he 
changed  the  train,  finding  an  hour  to  wait. 
The  little  town  was  deserted ;  the  great  tow- 
ers seemed  to  weigh  it  down,  to  compel  a  sol- 
emn stillness.  He  passed  his  time  in  the 
cathedral.  At  the  end  of  the  nave,  just  in 
front  of  the  eastern  windows,  is  a  beautiful 
reredos,  a  marvellous  assemblage  of  angels, 
saints  and  pinnacles.  There  is  a  central  fig- 
ure of  Christ  among  the  apostles  which  had  a 
strange  attraction  for  him.  He  must  have 
been  quite  rapt  in  this;  for  the  din  of  the 
noon-day  bells  reminded  him  that  his  train 
left  at  twelve-fourteen. 

At  Rushey  Station  the  carriage  met  him 
from  the  Eyotts,  with  Sir  Henry's  footmen  in 


16  Henry  Vane. 

mourning.  The  Greshams  were  all  very  fond 
of  Mary.  He  saw  his  mother  as  soon  as  he 
got  to  the  house  ;  but  nothing  was  said  be- 
tween them  for  a  long  time.  "  Mary  is  to  be 
buried  here,"  she  began,  finally.  "  I  think  it 
better ;  better  than  any  place  out  of  America." 
Then,  after  a  pause  :  "  I  have  not  dared  to 
telegraph  your  father.  I  could  not  bear  to 
have  him  know,  all  alone.  He  has  not  been 
well  lately,  I  know ;  and  is  anxious  about  his 
business.  I  wrote  him  that  Mary  was  ill,  and 
begged  him  to  come  to  France." 

The  Greshams  were  very  kind,  and  all  was 
done  that  could  be  done.  Clara  Gresham 
seemed  overcome  with  grief ;  she  had  loved 
Mary  so  dearly,  and  her  visit  was  to  have  been 
such  a  happy  one.  She  was  a  quiet,  rather 
plain  girl,  but  Vane  found  he  could  talk  more 
easily  with  her  than  with  any  one  else.  His 
mother  and  he  said  very  little  when  they  were 
together. 

One  morning,  at  the  breakfast  table,  Vane 
got  a  letter  from  America.  Some  presentiment 


Henry  Vane.  17 

made  him  conceal  it  from  his  mother,  and  not 
open  it  until  he  was  alone.  It  was  written  in 
a  tremulous  hand,  unlike  his  father's,  and 
told  him  they  had  lost  everything.  His 
father's  property,  though  large,  was  all  in- 
volved in  railways ;  and  some  panic  had  inter- 
vened at  a  critical  moment  and  all  had  been 
swept  away.  "  My  poor  boy,"  the  letter  went 
on,  "even  your  own  little  fortune  is  gone. 
Will  you  forgive  me?  You  can  bear  it,  I 
know,  for  you  are  young,  and  can  make  your 
own  way  ;  and  your  mother  has  loved  me  long 
enough  to  live  with  me  these  few  last  years  in 
poverty;  but  when  I  think  of  Mary's  future, 
so  different  from  what  I  had  hoped,  it  breaks 
my  heart.  You  must  give  up  the  lease  of 
Monrepos  and  come  to  America  directly." 

His  mother  divined  bad  news,  immediately, 
and  followed  him,  when  he  left  the  room  ;  but 
she  seemed  almost  happy  to  hear  it  was  only 
their  fortune  they  had  lost,  and  not  her  hus- 
band. Her  one  idea  was  to  get  back  to  him  in 
America ;  but,  to  do  that  they  must  first  re- 


18  Henry  Vane. 

turn  to  France.  Their  departure  from  the 
Greshams  was  hasty,  and  in  the  afternoon  they 
were  on  their  way  to  Brittany.  His  mother 
seemed  very  much  broken ;  and  he  even  feared 
for  her  mind  at  times.  It  was  necessary  to  in- 
terrupt the  journey  at  London  and  Dover ;  and 
it  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  he  found 
himself  finally  within  the  gates  of  home. 

But  Yane's  life  was  to  begin  with  a  crushing 
succession  of  sorrows.  Mrs.  Yane  was  impa- 
tient and  nervous ;  and  went  hastily  into  the 
house  while  he  turned  to  give  some  directions 
about  the  luggage.  As  he  stood  talking  to  the 
coachman,  he  heard  a  faint  cry  in  the  hall. 
He  went  quickly  in,  and  found  his  mother 
fainting,  another  fatal  yellow  envelope  beside 
her.  It  was  a  telegram  from  one  of  his  father's 
friends  in  New  York,  announcing  his  sudden 
death  in  that  city. 

It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  Mrs.  Yane 
was  brought  back  to  consciousness  at  all ;  and 
when  she  revived,  she  was  delirious.  Yane 
knew  nothing  whatever  about  illness ;  but  he 


Henry  Vane.  19 

carried  her  up-stairs  himself  and  then  drove  to 
Rennes  for  another  doctor,  leaving  the  local 
practitioners  in  charge.  It  seemed  so  strange 
to  be  all  alone,  to  have  charge  of  the  family 
affairs,  to  have  no  one  to  consult  with  or  rely 
upon.  But  Mary,  too,  was  dead. 

So  he  drove  into  Rennes  and  brought  a  re- 
spectable old  doctor,  who  talked  gracefully 
about  nothings,  and  looked  at  him  curiously 
and  not  unkindly  over  his  spectacles.  He 
heard  in  a  few  words  the  story  of  his  mother's 
illness,  but  seemed  more  interested  in  Vane 
himself.  "Ce  beau  jeune  homme,"  he  said, 
tapping  him  playfully  on  the  arm  ;  "  il  ne  faut 
pas  gater  tout  ga! "  The  young  man  somewhat 
impatiently  shook  him  off  and  assured  him 
that  he  was  well.  Arriving  at  the  chateau, 
Dr.  Kerouec  went  at  once  to  the  sick-room, 
but  stayed  there  barely  five  minutes. 

Yes,  one  could  save  her  life  ;  he  had  seen 
that  directly.  But,  for  the  rest,  he  must  get 
her  at  once  to  some  place  of  security  where 
she  might  have  treatment — it  was  her  only 


20  Henry  Vane. 

chance.  But  Vane  said  No  to  this  ;  not  until 
they  were  sure. 

The  next  day  she  had  recovered  her  strength, 
but  was  violently  insane.  They  lived  in  the 
chateau  a  month  and  there  was  no  change. 
Then  the  servants  talked  of  going,  and  letters 
came  from  America  telling  Vane  how  complete 
his  father's  ruin  had  been.  He  had  been 
buried  by  his  friends  in  New  Tork,  as  Vane 
had  directed  by  telegraph.  Vane  could  no 
longer  keep  the  chateau  or  even  pay  the 
household  expenses.  He  must  go  to  America 
to  see  what  he  could  save  of  his  father's  es- 
tate. 

At  the  end  of  the  month  several  physicians, 
most  skilled  in  mental  disorders,  had  a  consul- 
tation on  his  mother's  case.  The  decision  was 
unanimous — she  was  incurable.  Could  she 
live?  Yes,  with  proper  care,  for  years.  Dr. 
Kerouec  had  a  personal  friend  who  made  a 
specialty  of  these  cases  and  took  charge  of 
only  two  or  three  patients  at  a  time.  Was 
this  her  only  chance  of  getting  well  ?  Yes : 


Henry  Vane.  21 

if  no  chance  could  be  called  a  chance.  It  was 
not  an  ordinary  maison  de  sante,  and  here  she 
would  have  the  best  of  treatment,  but  it  was 
expensive — fifteen  hundred  francs  a  month. 
Could  she  bear  the  journey  to  America? 
Never.  Vane  thanked  the  doctors  and  dis- 
missed them  all,  except  Dr.  Kerouec. 

That  night,  for  many  hours,  the  young  man 
paced  the  courtyard  under  his  mother's  win- 
dow. At  ten  in  the  morning  he  asked  to  see 
the  doctor  and  found  him  breakfasting. 

"  I  have  decided,"  he  said  briefly.  Dr.  Ke- 
rouec extended  his  hand :  "  Ce  brave  jeune 
homme!"  The  next  evening  his  mother  was 
safely  installed  in  the  pretty  little  house  near 
Rennes,  where  already  Dr.  Kerouec  and  his 
friend  had  privately  made  preparations.  "  And, 
my  boy,"  said  Dr.  Kerouec  (who  was  rich  and 
knew  all  the  circumstances  by  this  time),  "  it 
is  customary  to  pay  in  advance  only  when  my 
friend  does  not  know  ses  gens.  I  have  told  him 
that  you  will  pay  at  the  end  of  the  year." 
Vane's  voice  faltered  as  he  thanked  the  doc- 


22  Henry  Vane. 

tor,  but  lie  produced  a  bank  note  for  five 
thousand  francs  and  insisted  upon  leaving  it 
then. 

That  night  Dr.  Kerouec  saw  Vane  safely  on 
board  the  St.  Malo  packet.  "  I  will  care  for 
her,  my  son,"  he  said,  with  a  parting  pressure 
of  the  hand.  "  Ce  brave  jeune  homme,"  he 
muttered,  as  he  walked  ashore  and  up  the 
little  Norman  street,  mopping  his  bald  head 
(for  it  was  a  hot  June  evening)  with  a  large 
red  silk  handkerchief. 


III. 


VANE  had  six  hundred  francs  left ;  and, 
taking  the  Holyhead  mail,  the  next  even- 
ing he  was  on  board  the  City  of  Richmond  at 
Queenstown  as  a  steerage  passenger.  He  had 
been  troubled  with  no  further  thoughts  of  ad- 
venture in  the  Soudan ;  and  was  quite  indiffer- 
ent as  to  his  own  denouement.  He  spent  a  great 
deal  of  the  time  at  sea  walking  on  the  deck ;  as 
a  steerage  passenger  he  was  allowed  to  walk 
aft  as  far  as  the  foremast.  The  other  steerage 
passengers  looked  upon  him  as  an  intellectual 
young  gentleman ;  probably  a  scholar  in  re- 
duced circumstances. 

Eighteen  thousand  francs  a  year,  Vane  was 
thinking ;  this,  at  least,  he  must  have,  for  his 
mother  could  not  be  sent  elsewhere.  Crold  was 
then  at  a  premium,  and  this  sum  meant  four 
thousand  a  year  in  America.  Just  the  insignif- 
icant fortune  he  had  lost ;  but  could  his  labor 


24  Henry  Vane. 

be  worth  so  much  ?  This  problem  had  filled 
his  mind,  and  kept  his  temper  sane.  One  who 
has  to  earn  his  bread  has  little  time  to  sigh 
for  things  less  possible  of  attainment.  The 
natural  animal  motive  atones  for  any  want  of 
others ;  no  one  is  a  pessimist  who  has  to  work 
for  his  living.  The  young  man  smiled  a  little 
at  the  thought  that  he,  too,  was  going  to 
America  to  seek  his  fortune — not  to  improve 
his  future,  but  to  amend  what  remained  of  the 
past.  This  one  obvious,  clear  duty  was  before 
him  then.  Afterwards,  he  might  see  what  the 
world  had  left  for  him. 

One  day  about  sunset  he  was  sitting  on  the 
deck,  reading  a  favorite  book  of  his — an  old 
Florentine  edition  of  Petrarca.  As  he  turned 
the  leaves,  a  broken  rose  fell  from  them.  It 
was  a  book  which  they — the  English  girl  and 
he — had  often  read  together ;  and,  having  no 
Bible  (for,  like  all  Frenchmen  and  many  young 
men,  he  was  rather  a  skeptic  in  matters  of  re- 
ligion), he  had  thrown  her  rose  hastily  be- 
tween the  leaves.  He  was  surprised  a  little, 


Henry  Vane.  25 

now,  at  his  own  want  of  sentiment.  But  those 
times  already  seemed  so  far  off !  He  looked  at 
the  flower  a  moment ;  then  picked  it  up,  and 
dropped  it  in  the  sea.  The  leaves  scattered 
as  it  fell,  and  were  soon  lost  in  the  broad  wake 
of  the  steamer. 

Vane  landed  in  New  York  among  five  hun- 
dred other  steerage  passengers.  Of  course  the 
papers  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  report  the 
coming  of  so  insignificant  a  person ;  nor  did  he 
call  upon  any  of  his  social  acquaintances.  His 
first  visit  was  to  his  father's  grave;  then  he 
went  to  see,  at  their  down-town  oflices,  such  of 
his  father's  business  friends  and  correspond- 
ents as  he  knew  by  name.  He  had  written 
Mr.  Peyton — the  one  from  whom  the  news  had 
come — to  suspend  all  decisive  steps  until  he 
came.  Mr.  Peyton — as  indeed  were  all  who 
had  known  his  father — was  very  kind ;  and 
told  him  the  first  thing  to  do  was  to  get  ap- 
pointed administrator  of  his  father's  estate. 
This  being  done,  he  called  a  meeting  of  his 
father's  creditors.  Mr.  Peyton  had  advised 


26  Henry  Vane. 

him  to  offer  a  settlement  of  sixty  cents  on  the 
dollar ;  but  he  did  not  accept  this  suggestion. 
He  told  the  creditors  of  Mr.  Peyton's  advice, 
and  added  that  he  could  probably  pay  at  least 
seventy  cents.  But,  he  continued,  his  desire 
was  to  pay  in  full.  His  only  hope  of  so  doing 
was  to  be  allowed  to  hold  his  father's  invest- 
ments for  a  time,  manage  them  judiciously, 
and  avoid  forced  sales.  Would  they  give  him 
three  years  ? 

They  were  few  in  number,  all  capitalists, 
and  co-operators  with  his  father;  and  they 
were  pleased  with  something  in  the  young 
man's  manner.  All  except  one  could  easily 
spare  the  money ;  and  to  him  Vane,  with  the 
consent  of  the  other  creditors,  gave  his  divi- 
dend of  seventy  per  cent.,  and  received  his 
acquittances  in  full.  And  that  night  the  other 
creditors,  at  a  directors'  dinner,  agreed  that, 
while  they  had  done  a  very  foolish  thing,  they 
were  anxious  to  see  what  young  Vane  would 
make  of  it. 

Young  Vane  took  two  small  rooms  in  the 


Henry  Vane.  27 

oldest  house  of  a  down-town  street,  for  which 
he  paid  two  dollars  a  week.  And  that  autumn, 
Vane,  who  a  few  months  before  had  barely  ad- 
mitted that  the  name  Bellefontaine  had  a  civil- 
ized sound,  might  have  been  seen  riding  on 
the  cow-catcher  of  a  locomotive  in  Northern 
Wisconsin,  and  estimating  the  probable  earn- 
ings from  freight  when  the  forests  about  him 
were  cut.  When  he  got  his  father's  affairs 
into  such  shape  that  they  could  be  managed 
from  New  York,  he  procured  a  clerkship  in  a 
banking-house  in  that  city  at  six  hundred  dol- 
lars salary.  And  then  for  a  year,  his  life  was 
monotonous  routine  without  a  day's  rest.  He 
rose  at  seven,  prepared  his  own  breakfast  of 
bread  and  fruit,  and  was  at  the  bank  before 
nine.  He  lunched  on  a  sandwich ;  left  the 
bank  at  five,  and  walked  to  the  Park  and  back. 
At  seven  he  dined  on  a  steak  and  a  pint  of  ale. 
And  such  of  his  evenings  as  were  not  occupied 
with  the  care  of  his  father's  estate,  this  practi- 
cal young  man  of  business  gave,  not  to  news- 
papers and  stock  reports,  but  to  medieval  his- 


28  Henry  Vane. 

tory  and  Italian  poetry.  It  was  his  safety 
valve.  He  sometimes  thought  of  writing  a 
book  on  the  social  and  political  history  of  the 
Florentine  republic.  He  steadily  refused  all 
invitations  of  his  capitalist  friends  to  dinner 
or  other  entertainments.  He  could  now  live 
with  two  suits  of  clothes,  and,  to  accept  their 
invitations,  he  would  need  three  ;  moreover,  he 
secretly  feared  that  he  could  not  bear  his 
present  mode  of  life  if  he  had  even  a  glimpse 
of  any  other.  Only  while  alone  could  he  for- 
get that  he  was  alone  in  the  world.  John,  who 
was  in  the  same  banking-house,  was  the  only 
man  he  knew  ;  and  many  an  evening  John  left 
a  dinner,  or  was  late  at  a  party,  that  he  might 
sit  for  an  hour  in  the  little  back  room  in 
Washington  Place. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  year  Vane  took  a 
week's  vacation,  walking  in  the  Catskills. 
Every  week  he  had  a  letter  from  Bennes  ;  and 
frequently  one  from  Dr.  Kerouec,  telling  him 
of  no  change  in  his  mother's  condition.  When 
he  returned  from  his  vacation,  he  was  called 


Henry  Vane.  29 

into  the  counting-room  of  the  senior  partner, 
and  given  a  check  for  four  hundred  dollars  in 
addition  to  his  first  year's  salary  of  six  hun- 
dred ;  and,  moreover,  was  promoted  to  a  posi- 
tion of  three  thousand  a  year  salary.  That 
first  year,  Vane  had  spent  three  hundred  and 
eighty  dollars  in  board  and  lodging,  and  eighty 
more  in  pocket  money.  He  had  bought  no 
clothing,  having  brought  all  he  needed  from 
France.  His  travelling  expenses  had  been 
large,  but  these  he  had  charged  to  the  account 
of  his  father's  estate.  This  left  him  five  hun- 
dred and  forty  dollars  to  the  good. 

Vane  then  went  to  Mr.  Peyton  and  borrowed 
three  thousand  dollars  on  his  own  security. 
This  three  thousand  he  sent  to  Dr.  Kerouec ; 
and  five  hundred  dollars  of  his  earnings  he  in- 
vested in  a  life-assurance  policy  payable  to  Dr. 
Kerouec  as  trustee  for  his  mother.  He  thus 
had  forty  dollars  in  his  pocket  at  the  begin- 
ning of  his  second  year. 

By  this  time  some  of  his  father's  railways 
were  beginning  to  get  out  of  shallow  water. 
Vane  watched  them  carefully ;  and  by  judici- 


30  Henry  Vane. 

ous  management  and  successful  sales,  lie  was 
able,  on  the  first  of  August,  eighteen  hundred 
and  seventy-six,  the  end  of  the  three  years 
allowed  him,  to  pay  his  father's  creditors  their 
claims  in  full — four  hundred  and  forty-seven 
thousand  dollars,  with  interest  for  three  years 
at  six  per  cent.  And  over  and  above  this, 
after  paying  Mr.  Peyton,  he  had  sixteen  thou- 
sand dollars,  which  he  might  call  his  own. 
Early  in  August  he  sailed  for  Brittany,  and 
spent  a  week  with  Dr.  Kerouec  at  Rennes. 

His  mother's  hair  was  now  white ;  she  was 
quiet,  but  still  hopelessly  insane,  nor  did  she 
even  recognize  him. 

Vane  was  back  again  on  the  first  of  Septem- 
ber. When  he  presented  himself  at  the  bank, 
he  was  offered  a  responsible  position,  and  a 
salary  of  six  thousand  dollars  a  year,  with  a 
hint  of  partnership  in  the  near  future.  He  now 
removed  to  lodgings  in  Eighteenth  Street ;  and 
on  going  home  that  night,  for  the  first  time  in 
two  years  he  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying.  This 
turn  of  hysterics  was  the  prelude  to  a  low 
fever,  of  which  he  lay  five  weeks  ill. 


IV. 


JOHN  HAVILAND  was  with  him  a  great 
fJ  deal  of  this  time,  and,  on  his  recovery,  took 
him  severely  to  task  for  the  life  he  had  been 
leading.  For  three  years  he  had  been  a  mere 
machine  —  a  blind,  passionless,  purposeful 
energy.  A  man,  and  a  young  man,  could  not 
live  like  that.  What  pleasure  had  he  taken  in 
all  that  time  ?  And  a  young  man,  unless  he  has 
attained  happiness,  cannot  live  entirely  with- 
out pleasure,  even  if  it  be  true  that  he  should 
not  seek  for  it.  And  Haviland  knew  enough 
of  Vane's  life  to  feel  assured  that  there  had 
not  hitherto  been  much  happiness.  More- 
over, Vane  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  had 
been  out  of  it  for  three  years.  It  was  unnat- 
ural. He  should  see  something  of  the  people 
of  his  own  country.  His  mother  was  well ;  and 
would  probably  be  the  same  for  years.  And 
he  had  been  nearly  three  years  in  mourning. 


32  Henry  Vane. 

"  Now,"  John  concluded,  "  I  wish  you  to  come 
to  a  dinner  at  our  house  on  Friday." 

Vane  smiled,  and  looked  at  his  threadbare 
black  suit — one  of  the  original  black  suits — 
which  had  seen  much  service  since  he  brought 
it  over  from  France.  But  he  pleasantly  ac- 
cepted John's  invitation,  and  forthwith  visited 
his  tailor.  That  afternoon,  in  the  park,  as 
he  turned  to  come  home  from  his  walk,  and 
saw  the  walls  and  spires  of  his  own  city 
harshly  outlined  before  the  sunset,  he  realized 
for  the  first  time  that  he  was  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land.  For  the  first  time,  as  he  walked 
down  Fifth  Avenue,  between  the  level,  high 
wall  of  house  fronts,  with  their  regular  squares 
of  lighted  windows,  he  caught  himself  wonder- 
ing what  was  behind  these  windows.  Now 
and  then  he  saw  a  feminine  silhouette  on  the 
white  window-shades ;  in  some  houses,  even, 
he  could  see  into  a  lower  room ;  there  were  us- 
ually pictures  on  the  walls  and  often  books,  or 
bindings,  on  the  shelves  ;  there  was  frequently 
an  old  gentleman  by  the  fireside,  and  always  a 


Henry  Vane.  33 

young  girl  or  two.  It  was  piquant  to  catch 
these  glimpses  of  the  domestic  hearth  from 
the  street ;  he  remembered  how  impossible 
such  visions  were  in  the  Faubourg,  among  the 
old  hotels  between  court  and  garden. 

As  he  thought  of  the  newly  discovered  coun- 
try he  was  soon  to  enter,  so  strange  to  him,  he 
felt  that  he,  also,  was  strange  to  himself.  He 
tried  to  bring  back  his  old  nature  of  the  boule- 
vards, Longchamp  and  Trouville ;  but  it 
seemed  to  him  childish  and  obsolete;  showy 
and  senseless,  like  a  pasteboard  suit  of  stage 
armor.  He  did  not  regret  it.  He  was  a  man 
and  an  American ;  men  were  earnest,  life  in 
America  was  earnest.  He  knew  little  of  his 
own  city ;  but  he  had  read  the  current  novels  ; 
and  he  thought  that  he  had  seen  enough  to 
know  that  the  every-day  life  in  America  was 
tangible,  material,  and  the  life  of  society  what 
it  should  be,  a  gay  leisure,  a  surface  of  pleas- 
ure and  rest.  Now,  in  Paris  it  was  the  every- 
day life  that  was  trivial ;  the  theatres  were 
filled  with  vaudevilles  ;  but  the  tragedies  were 


34  Henry  Vane. 

everywhere,  off  the  stage.  It  was  well,  the 
young  man  felt,  that  he  was  an  American ;  his 
life  had  begun  too  sternly  for  a  more  artificial 
state  of  society ;  he  lacked  more  than  other 
people,  and  he  demanded  more  from  the 
world. 

So  the  Friday  night  in  question  found  him 
arrayed  in  the  normal  evening  costume  of 
modern  times.  It  wore  somewhat  awkwardly 
and  strangely  at  first;  and  one  or  two  little 
minutiae  of  dress  he  did  not  know  at  all ;  as, 
whether  gentlemen  in  America  would  wear 
gold  studs,  and  how  they  tied  their  cra- 
vats. A  waiter  met  him  in  the  hall  holding  a 
plate,  on  which  were  several  little  envelopes, 
one  of  which  bore  his  name.  I  suppose, 
thought  he,  in  a  country  where  there  is  no  pre- 
cedence, but  much  formality,  this  indicates 
whom  we  are  to  take  in  to  dinner.  He  opened 
his  envelope  and  found  within  a  card,  and 
written  in  a  feminine  hand  Miss  Baby  Thomas. 
What  an  intolerable  name  ! 

Coming  above  into  the  reception  room,  his 


Henry  Vane.  35 

first  impressions  were  decidedly  favorable. 
John's  mother  was  a  comely  woman  of  that 
comfortable  domestic  sort  known  as  mother- 
ly ;  she  raised  one's  opinion  of  human  nature 
even  by  the  way  in  which  she  sat  down.  The 
prevailing  tone  seemed  refined,  Yane  thought. 
No  more  bad  taste  was  visible  than  is  un- 
avoidable in  a  country  where  the  head  of  a 
family  dies  in  a  finer  house  than  the  one  he 
was  born  in.  The  women  were  charming  in 
dress,  and  face  and  figure  ;  but  their  voices 
were  disagreeable,  and  they  seemed  to  him  a 
little  brusque.  In  fact,  the  men,  though  rather 
awkward,  seemed  to  have  more  social  impor- 
tance, if  not  better  breeding. 

So  far  had  he  progressed  in  his  studies, 
when  a  voice  over  his  shoulder  said,  "Miss 
Thomas — Mr.  Yane."  Inferring  that  he  was 
being  presented,  he  turned  quickly  about, 
bowing  as  he  did  so.  The  young  lady  did  not 
wait  for  him  to  begin,  but  at  once  rattled  off 
a  number  of  questions  about  himself  and  his 
foreign  life.  As  the  most  of  these  she  an- 


36  Henry  Vane. 

swered  herself  with  an  "I  suppose,"  or  a 
"  but  of  course,"  Vane  had  leisure  to  observe 
her  while  she  talked.  She  was  pretty ;  admi- 
rably, sweetly  pretty ;  there  was  no  doubt  of 
that ;  as  pretty  as  masses  of  dead-black  hair 
and  eyes  of  intense  gentian  blue  could  make 
her.  She  had  a  lovely  neck  and  hands ;  and  a 
smile  which  seemed  placed  there  with  a  divine 
foreknowledge  of  kisses.  It  was  at  once  in- 
fantine, arch  and  gentle ;  and  then  there  was  a 
pretty  little  toss  of  the  head  and  a  shrug  of 
the  white,  young  shoulders.  Vane  looked  at 
her  curiously,  a  little  condescendingly  perhaps, 
as  the  first  specimen  of  the  natives  he  had 
seen.  She  did  not  seem  to  mind  his  looking  at 
her.  If  a  French  girl  had  so  calmly  borne  his 
glance,  there  would  have  been  a  little  of  the 
coquette  in  hers.  But,  after  all,  thought  Vane, 
— this  was  charming  ;  more  ideal,  more  intel- 
ligent, sweeter  than  Paris — but  it  was  not  un- 
like Paris.  The  dress  was  certainly  Parisian. 
She  was  better  dressed  than  young  ladies  are 
in  Paris.  Her  people  must  be  very  rich.  Yet, 


Henry  Fane.  37 

he  was  disappointed.  She  was  not  American 
enough.  She  would  have  been  quite  in  his 
mood  of  five  years  gone  by.  She  was  not  like 
English  girls  ;  and  he  had  hoped  American 
girls  were  like  them. 

Vane  had  just  finished  this  process  of  men- 
tally ticketing  her  off,  when  she  grew  silent. 
The  first  quick  rush  of  her  conversation  was 
gone.  She  seemed  to  be  getting  her  breath 
and  waiting  for  him.  He  did  not  quite  know 
how  to  begin.  This  young  lady  reminded  him 
of  a  glass  of  champagne.  When  you  first  pour 
it  out,  there  is  a  froth  and  sparkle ;  then  a 
stillness  comes ;  if  you  wish  a  fresh  volume  of 
sparkles,  you  must  drop  something  into  it.  A 
piece  of  sugar  is  best.  Vane's  French  breed- 
ing stood  him  in  good  stead  :  he  began  with  a 
compliment. 

After  the  dinner,  the  nine  ladies  disappeared 
from  the  room  ;  and  the  nine  men  grouped 
themselves  at  one  end  of  the  table  and  smoked 
cigars  over  the  sweetmeats.  When  the  room 
was  well  filled  with  tobacco-smoke,  they  threw 


38  Henry  Vane. 

open  the  doors,  and  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room.  The  ladies  were  grouped  about,  pictu- 
resquely, drinking  tea ;  and  the  air  was  delicate 
with  their  presence.  As  the  body  of  men 
moved  in,  it  seemed  a  little  like  an  incursion 
of  the  Huns  into  Italy. 

The  party  kept  together  but  a  few  moments 
more.  Most  of  the  men  were  sleepy  ;  little  was 
said  by  the  women.  It  was  as  if  there  were 
nothing  to  talk  about,  or  as  if  the  men  had 
eaten  too  much ;  but  they  had  eaten  very  little. 
Vane  was  relieved  when  they  got  out  of  doors. 

John  walked  back  to  his  lodgings  with  him. 
The  two  young  men  found  no  lack  of  things  to 
talk  about.  Haviland  took  still  another  cigar. 
"  What  did  you  think  of  the  dinner  ?  "  said  he 
finally.  "  I  mean,  the  people  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  was  very  pleasant,"  said  Vane, 
eluding  the  second  form  of  the  question.  But 
Haviland  recurred  to  it. 

"  I  mean  the  people.  Miss  Thomas,  for  in- 
stance." 

"  Miss  Thomas,  for  instance,"  said  the  stran- 


Henry  Vane.  39 

ger.  "  I  think,"  lie  continued,  recalling  to 
mind  his  mental  label,  "  she  is  sweet-tem- 
pered, innocent,  ambitious,  and  shallow." 
Vane  had  formerly  prided  himself  on  some 
acquaintance  with  women  of  the  world. 

John  laughed.  "  Perhaps  you  are  right," 
he  said.  "  But  she  will  amuse  you,  and  wake 
you  up."  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  remember- 
ing something ;  then  he  laughed  again.  "  You 
do  not  do  her  justice  yet.  She  is  one  of  the 
most  entertaining  and,  in  an  innocent  little 
•way,  exciting  girls  I  know.  I  put  her  next 
you  for  that  purpose." 

"Who  is  her  father?" 

"  Oh,  a  stockbroker  down-town.  No  one  in 
particular.  The  family  would  not  interest 

you.", 

"None  of  the  mammas  were  here  to-night  ?  " 
"  Dear  me,  no,"  answered  John.     "  Why  do 

you  ask  ?  " 
"  I  should  like  to  see  some  of  them  ;  that  is 

alL" 


V. 


AT  this  time  Yane  was  not  in  the  habit  of 
thinking  about  women.  He  had  found  life 
particularly  serious,  and  girls  were  not  serious. 
Somewhat  fatuously,  perhaps,  he  fancied  no 
woman  under  thirty  could  either  understand 
him,  or  arouse  his  own  interest.  And  most 
of  the  women  over  thirty  were  married.  He 
understood  that  in  America  any  intimacy 
with  married  women  was  out  of  the  question  ; 
married  women  were  quite  given  up  to  domes- 
tic duties,  and  kept  out  of  society. 

But  Yane  had  certain  theories  of  his  own  as 
to  social  observances,  and  he  thought  it  his 
duty,  after  taking  Miss  Thomas  in  to  dinner, 
to  call  upon  her.  He  performed  this  duty 
(which  afterwards  became  a  pleasure)  upon 
the  following  afternoon.  He  found  her  in  a 
somewhat  dingy  house  on  East  Fifteenth 
Street,  but,  though  the  setting  was  dull  and 


Henry  Vane.  41 

commonplace,  herself  was  even  prettier  than 
he  remembered  her,  and  simply  and  charm- 
ingly dressed.  Vane  was  no  amateur  of  bric- 
a-brac  ;  he  had  no  auctioneer's  eye,  and,  if  a 
room  was  in  perfect  taste,  did  not  commonly 
notice  it  at  all ;  but  glaring  faults  would  force 
themselves  upon  him,  and  he  could  not  help 
observing  that,  with  the  exception  of  the 
daughter's  dress,  the  household  showed  no 
evidence  of  knowledge  of  what  is  good  in  liter- 
ature, art,  or  taste. 

Except  Miss  Thomas.  Always  except  Miss 
Thomas  herself.  She  received  him  with  much 
grace  of  manner,  but  seemed  to  have  very 
little  to  say.  Vane  found  that  he  had  to  talk 
largely  against  time;  and  this  rather  disap- 
pointed him  at  first.  At  first,  but  afterwards 
he  decided  that  he  liked  this  still  mood  best. 
There  was  no  dimple  and  sparkle,  but  it  was 
quiet  and  companionable.  She  is  not  like  "  a 
young  lady,"  Vane  thought;  still  less  like  a 
French  young  lady.  She  is  neither  ingenue 
nor  formee ;  she  is  young,  bright,  a  good  fel- 


42  Henry  Vane. 

low.  One  might  play  Paul  to  her  Francesca 
without  a  denouement.  How  could  he  have 
thought  her  ill-trained  ?  Though  she  had  evi- 
dently thought  little,  read  less,  and  been 
taught  nothing  at  all,  she  had  a  sweet  natural 
elegance  of  her  own.  Vane  found  time  to  ob- 
serve all  this  between  his  sentences.  They 
were  not  very  well  connected. 

Was  he  going  to  Mrs.  Hosier's  ball?  she 
had  asked. — No,  he  thought  not.  He  did  not 
know  her. — He  had  better  go.  Every  one 
would  be  there. 

"  Then  I  fear  I  am  no  one,"  said  Yane.  "  I 
am  not  even  invited."  He  was  sorry  to  fancy 
that  her  interest  in  him  flagged  a  little  after 
this.  She  had  met  him  at  a  good  house,  but, 
after  all,  he  might  be  a  mere  protege  of  John 
Haviland's.  Mr.  Haviland  was  always  picking 
up  queer  people.  A  moment  after  this  Vane 
took  his  leave. 

Why  should  he  not  go  to  Mrs.  Roster's  ?  he 
said  to  himself.  He  could  not  always  be 
brooding  on  the  addled  eggs  of  the  past.  Af- 


Henry  Vane.  43 

ter  all,  the  world  was  all  that  was  left  him,  and 
in  the  world  the  dance  still  went  on  merrily, 
and  maidens'  eyes  were  bright;  leaves  still 
were  green,  and  the  foam  of  the  sea  as  white 
as  ever,  and  wine  still  sparkled  in  the  glass. 
He  said  this  to  himself  with  a  somewhat  scep- 
tical grin,  for,  like  most  Frenchmen  with 
whom  he  had  lived,  he  took  little  pleasure  in 
drinking.  A  Frenchman  drinks  to  go  to  the 
devil :  he  rarely  goes  to  the  devil  because  he 
drinks.  Yet  he  was,  or  at  all  events  he  had 
been,  fond  of  society.  He  had  liked  light  and 
gay  faces,  and  bright  conversation,  and  heart- 
lessness — if  there  must  be  heartlessness — 
masked  under  suave  manners  and  intellectual 
sympathy.  Out  of  society  the  heartlessness 
was  just  as  real,  he  had  used  to  think,  only 
ruder ;  there  is  at  least  as  much  snobbishness, 
and  it  is  more  offensively  vulgar.  He  could 
not  stay  always  out  from  all  society.  He  must 
find  something  to  pull  him  back  into  the 
world;  he  must  get  some  grip  of  life.  Hith- 
erto his  only  foothold  had  been  his  clear  ne- 


44  Henry  Vane. 

cessity  of  making  eighteen  thousand  francs  a 
year  to  send  to  his  mother. 

He  could  probably  have  persuaded  himself 
with  much  less  reasoning  if  he  had  not  had  a 
secret  inclination  to  go ;  but,  as  it  was,  he 
reasoned  himself  into  it,  and  thought  that  he 
thought  it  was  a  bore.  So  he  went  to  Mrs. 
Eoster's  ball.  Of  course  he  admired  the 
beauty  of  American  women;  the  beauty  of 
American  women  is  like  the  Hudson  Eiver; 
one  is  bound  to  prefer  it  to  the  Ehine.  He 
thought  the  party  was  very  pretty  and  the 
dancing  beautifully  done,  and,  moreover,  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of  several  young  ladies 
of  quite  a  different  type  than  Miss  Thomas's. 
They  had  plenty  of  breeding  and  intelligence, 
and  talked  the  latest  slang  of  culture  to  per- 
fection, and  were  evidently  of  the  great  world, 
if  they  had  not  quite  so  much  charm  as  she. 
Still  none  of  these,  as  yet,  were  essentially 
American,  or  even  very  deeply  English,  though 
they  dabbled  in  it. 

Miss  Thomas  herself,  for  some  reason  un- 


Henry  Vane.  45 

known  to  Vane,  did  not  receive  quite  so  much 
attention  as  lie  had  fancied  that  she  would.  It 
was  not  her  fault,  for  she  was  charmingly 
dressed  and  never  looked  prettier. 

As  he  was  ready  to  leave  he  met  her,  for  the 
first  time,  coming  down  the  stairs  in  wraps 
and  wanting  her  carriage. 

"You  have  not  spoken  to  me  the  whole 
evening,"  said  she  softly,  as  she  took  his  arm. 

"  I  was  afraid  to,  mademoiselle,"  said  Vane, 
half  jocosely. 

"  Come  to-morrow,"  she  whispered  seri- 
ously. "  It  is  my  day  for  receiving,  and  I  shall 
be  so  glad  to  see  you."  Vane  bowed  his 
thanks,  and  the  next  moments  were  occupied 
in  conveying  herself  and  skirts  safely  into  the 
coupe.  As  he  was  about  to  shut  the  door  she 
extended  her  hand  frankly :  "  You  will  come, 
won't  you  ?  "  Vane  was  a  little  puzzled ;  he 
took  her  hand  awkwardly,  and  muttered  some- 
thing about  being  only  too  delighted.  He  had 
no  experience  whatever  of  American  women, 
much  less  American  girls.  Why  should  she 


16  Henry  Vane. 

so  particularly  wish  to  see  him?  He  called 
the  next  day,  expecting  to  learn,  but  in  that  he 
was  doomed  to  disappointment.  Apparently 
Miss  Thomas,  if  she  had  any  reason,  had  for- 
gotten it ;  she  had  very  little  to  say,  and  the 
call  was  quite  conventional  and  commonplace. 
"Bah!"  he  thought,  as  he  walked  home. 
"Here  I  have  wasted  half  an  afternoon  over 
this  girl  simply  because  she  asked  me. 
Doubtless  she  herself  had  nothing  better  to 
do  than  waste  it  over  me."  And  perhaps  he 
added  secretly  that  his  life  was  something 
more  serious  than  hers,  and,  at  all  events,  he 
had  no  mind  for  light  flirtation. 


VI. 


"YTEVEKTHELESS,  some  curious  chance 
-1-^  made  him  see  a  good  deal  of  Miss  Thomas. 
He  was  very  apt  to  sit  next  her  at  dinner, 
even  if  he  did  not  take  her  in.  And  whatever 
she  might  be,  she  certainly  was  not  silly.  She 
said  very  little,  it  is  true  ;  but  it  occurred  to 
Vane  one  day  that  what  she  did  say  never 
placed  her  in  a  false  or  foolish  position.  Nor 
had  he  ever  made  a  remark  which  she  did 
not  fully  understand,  in  its  full  bearing  and 
implication.  Sometimes  she  affected — partic- 
ularly if  its  nature  was  complimentary — to  be 
wholly  unconscious  of  its  meaning  ;  some- 
times she  would  even  ask  an  explanation.  But 
a  moment  after,  she  was  very  apt  to  say  or  do 
some  little  thing  which  showed  that  she  had 
understood  it  perfectly.  Vane,  who,  in  his 
flippant  moods,  was  rather  an  adept  at  conver- 
sational fencing,  and  had  flattered  himself  that 


48  Henry  Vane. 

very  careful  ground  was  quite  unnecessary 
with  Miss  Thomas,  gradually  put  more  atten- 
tion into  his  guard  and  more  care  in  his  at- 
tack. And  when  he  saw,  to  continue  his  own 
metaphor,  that  his  simple  thrusts  in  quarte 
and  tierce  were  easily  parried  and  sometimes 
returned,  he  began  to  honor  his  adversary  with 
a  more  elaborate  attack.  But,  as  he  one  day 
acknowledged  to  himself,  though  she  had 
rarely  touched  him,  yet  he  was  not  sure  that 
he  had  ever  got  fairly  under  her  own  guard. 
Altogether,  the  more  he  saw  of  Miss  Thomas, 
the  more  she  interested  him;  and  after  the 
serious  struggles  of  the  day,  he  quite  enjoyed 
his  little  playful  evening  encounters  with  so 
charming  a  feminine  adversary.  For  he  began 
to  admit  to  himself  that  she  was  charming — 
there  was  no  doubt  of  that.  And  meantime 
(so  he  fancied)  the  intercourse  with  her  happy, 
simple  nature  was  having  a  beneficial  influence 
on  his  own. 

For  the  past  three  years  his  attitude   had 
been  one  of  stern  courage,  of  self-renunciation. 


Henry  Vane.  49 

But,  after  all,  why  should  even  he  be  always 
shut  out  from  the  spring?  Flowers  still 
bloomed  in  the  world,  summer  followed  winter, 
and  this  pretty  little  butterfly  that  fluttered 
near  him  might,  after  all,  bring  him  healthier 
thoughts  from  her  own  air  than  he  found 
in  his  morbid  life.  What  a  sharp  inquisitor 
is  one's  own  self !  What  a  cross-examiner  of 
hidden  motive !  And  what  a  still  sharper  wit- 
ness is  that  self  under  inquisition!  Vane 
never  took  his  young  friend  seriously;  and 
felt  a  need  of  excusing  himself  for  trifling,  as 
he  thought. 

John  suddenly  asked  him,  one  day,  what  he 
thought  of  Miss  Thomas  now,  and  whether  he 
had  changed  his  views  at  all  "I  was  very 
much  struck  with  your  first  diagnosis,"  he 
said.  "At  a  moment's  study,  you  gave  the 
popular  opinion  of  her;  that  she  was  gay, 
shallow,  good-humored,  and  ambitious — and 
you  might  have  added  clever,  rather  than 
innocent." 

Vane  was  a  little  displeased. 
4 


50  Henry  Vane. 

"  I  think  that  I  and  the  world  were  wrong," 
said  he.  "  She  is  not  shallow,  but  she  is  hum- 
ble rather  than  vain ;  as  for  ambition,  she  is 
perhaps  too  much  without  it ;  and  I  should  not 
be  surprised  if  somewhere  about  her  pretty 
little  self  she  had  a  true  woman's  heart,  which 
she  is  not  yet  conscious  of." 

John  laughed.  "  Look  out,  old  man,"  said 
he;  "only  a  poet  is  allowed  to  fall  in  love 
with  his  own  creation.  Never  say  I  have  not 
given  you  fair  warning.  Ten  Eyck  was  very 
attentive  to  her  at  one  time;  and  the  world 
believed  that  she  wanted  to  marry  him.  But 
he  was  appointed  charge  d'affaires  at  London ; 
and  left  her  without  bringing  matters  to  an 
issue.  Since  then,  when  he  has  been  back  in 
New  York  once  or  twice,  ho  has  entirely 
dropped  her." 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  she  still  cares 
for  him  after  that  ?  " 

"  So  the  world  thinks  ;  and  the  world  is  apt 
to  be  right  in  such  matters." 

"  Bah  ! "  said  Vane.    "  No  woman  could  care 


Henry  Vane.  51 

for  a  man  who  had  once  led  her  to  believe  he 
loved  her,  and  left  her." 

"  Humph  ! "  answered  John.  "  That  may  be 
true  of  woman  in  the  abstract ;  but  I  am  not 
sure  of  its  truth  in  this  longitude.  It  is  easier 
to  judge  woman  in  general  than  a  New  York 
girl  in  particular." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Vane,  "  I  give  her  full 
leave  to  try  her  skill  on  me,  skilful  as  you  say 
she  is.  Indeed,  if  you  think  she  is  fair  game 
for  what  you  call  a  flirtation,  you  have  removed 
my  only  scruples." 

"Very  well,  old  boy— go  in.  But  Miss 
Thomas  once  told  another  girl  that  she  could 
understand  any  man  in  two  days'  acquaintance. 
Don't  go  in  too  deep." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  thought  Vane  when  John  had 
left.  "I  flatter  myself  I  am  beyond  her 
hurting.  It  is  pleasant  enough  to  have  her  as 
a  friend.  I  wish  I  could  wish  to  marry  her." 
And  he  called  to  his  mind  Brittany  and  that 
last  rose.  "  But  I  am  sorry  if  she  really  can 
still  care  for  that  man.  Ten  Eyck  was  his 


62  Henry  Vane. 

name?  I  should  be  sorry  to  like  her  less. 
How  strange  these  American  women  are ! 
Now,  in  France — Bah!"  he  broke  off,  "it 
can't  be  true  ;  and,  after  all,  what  do  I  care  if 
it  is?" 

Yane  liked  her  very  much,  and  thought  her 
very  much  underrated  by  the  world ;  and  the 
same  afternoon,  by  way  of  vindication,  he  went 
to  her  house  and  made  a  long  call,  tete-d-tete. 
He  had  fallen  into  an  easy  companionship 
with  her,  which  made  her  society  a  delightful 
rest  and  respite  from  the  earnest  stress  and 
strain  of  his  life,  of  any  man's  life.  They 
were  beginning  to  have  numerous  little  confi- 
dences as  to  people  and  things ;  views  shared 
by  them  only,  which  gave  them  little  private 
topics  of  conversation,  nooks  of  thought,  where 
they  met  Thus  Vane  could  quite  shut  out  a 
third  party  from  the  conversation,  and  keep 
Miss  Thomas  to  himself.  Her  cultivation  and 
taste  surprised  him  more  and  more  as  he 
knew  her.  This  pretty  little  New  York  girl, 
naturally  half-spoiled  and  petted,  brought  up 


Henry  Vane.  53 

in  a  particularly  bourgeois  household,  never 
having  been  out  of  it  and  New  York,  had  yet 
a  range  of  mind  and  appreciation  quite  equal 
to  anything  he  could  bring  her  in  books  or  in 
conversation.  The  people  about  her  seemed 
totally  different — different  in  views,  in  taste, 
in  appearance,  in  manner.  Yet  she  never 
seemed  discontented  at  home — a  common 
fault  of  children  in  a  country  where  they 
improve  upon  their  parents.  She  moved 
among  them  modestly  and  lovingly,  like  a 
princess  unconscious  of  her  royalty.  All  this 
thought  Vane,  and  marvelled. 

He  found  that  even  his  peculiar  tastes  were 
shared.  It  has  been  mentioned  that  this  suc- 
cessful young  business  man  had  a  secret  taste 
for  Italian  poetry.  This  he  had  been  used  to 
indulge  alone ;  but  on  his  mentioning  it,  she 
spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the  sweet  old  me- 
diaeval terza  rima.  Having  little  opinion  of 
women's  power  of  purely  ideal  enjoyment,  he 
had  at  first  doubted  the  sincerity  of  this  taste. 
Stijl,  he  brought  around  some  old  verses  one 


54  Henry  Vane. 

day  ;  and  soon  it  became  his  habit,  instead  of 
reading  alone,  to  pass  an  evening  or  two  in  a 
week  reading  with  her.  And  so  during  the 
winter,  with  double  the  pleasure  he  had  ever 
known  before,  they  went  through  the  familiar 
pages  of  Ariosto,  Tasso  and  Dante.  The  fifth 
canto  of  the  Inferno  remained,  however,  her 
favorite  ;  and  with  the  light  of  her  eyes  upon 
the  text  Vane  made  a  much  better  translation 
than  Byron  or  Gary  ever  dreamed  She  was 
never  tired  of  hearing  the  passage  beginning 
"Siede  la  terra  dove  nata  fui"  And  much 
practice  in  translation  makes  perfect. 

Thus,  thanks  to  Miss  Thomas  and  a  little 
sight  of  the  lighter  rim  of  life,  Vane  passed  a 
winter  which,  if  not  happy,  was  at  least  less 
bitter  than  he  had  known  for  years.  In  the 
natural  course  of  events,  society  pronounced 
him  attentive  to  Miss  Thomas ;  but  Vane  cared 
little  for  that.  His  character  was  not  of  the 
mould  which  cares  what  the  world  says.  He 
did  not  believe  that  her  life  was  very  happy, 
either;  and  he  thought  they  were  both  the 


Henry  Vane.  55 

better  for  their  friendship.  The  more  he  saw 
of  her,  the  less  he  doubted  that  she  had  at  one 
time  cared  for  some  one,  Ten  Eyck  or  an- 
other ;  though,  of  course,  for  him  she  would 
never  care  again.  After  all,  she  was  his  su- 
perior ;  she  had  kept  her  sweet  self  above  her 
sorrow,  he  had  not.  How  he  had  misinter- 
preted her  that  first  evening!  Now  he  saw 
she  was  a  woman,  in  all  the  glory  of  her 
womanhood,  strong,  gentle,  and  true. 

Vane  went  back  to  Brittany  in  the  June  of 
the  summer  following.  One  of  his  last  calls 
was  upon  Miss  Thomas,  and  she  chided  him 
with  not  making  it  the  very  last.  However, 
the  call  lasted  three  hours.  Twenty  times 
Vane  rose  to  go,  and  each  time  was  detained 
by  some  pretext  or  another  of  Miss  Thomas. 
There  is  a  sweet  pleading  manner  of  urging  a 
wish,  even  a  selfish  one,  that  makes  you  feel  as 
if  you  were  doing  yourself  a  favor  in  gratify- 
ing it.  Miss  Thomas  had  this  manner,  which 
few  men,  particularly  strong  men,  can  resist. 
Vane  always  yielded.  He  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  putting  a  pet  canary  through  the 


56  Henry  Vane. 

manual  of  arms  as  of  resisting  it.  In  this  way 
Vane's  visit  was  prolonged,  and  when  he  went 
home  he  admitted  to  himself  that  it  had  been 
a  very  charming  one.  He  thought  she  was  a 
lovely  woman,  and  wished  some  nice  fellow 
would  marry  her.  What  a  gentle,  sunny  nat- 
ure she  had !  And  what  a  lovely  type  of  the 
best  American  women,  so  different  both  from 
the  French  and  English,  so  natural,  so  pure, 
and  yet  so  bright  and  charming.  "At  least," 
thought  Vane,  "  if  I  ever  go  back  to  France  to 
live  I  shall  have  seen  some  things  wholly 
worthy  of  admiration  in  my  own  country." 
He  was  sorry  if  she  really  cared  (as  she  had 
seemed  to)  that  he  had  called  upon  her  two 
days  before  his  departure.  She  had  been 
very  kind  to  him  that  winter,  and  it  certainly 
would  have  been  more  empresse  to  have  called 
upon  her  last.  Vane  stopped  on  his  way  to 
Jersey  City  the  morning  of  the  steamer's  sail- 
ing, and  procured  a  superb  mass  of  roses. 
These  he  sent  to  Miss  Thomas  with  his  card : 
"From  her  sincere  friend."  It  was  the  last 
thing  he  did  in  America. 


VII. 

T7ANE  stayed  with  old  Dr.  Kerouec  in 
»  Bennes,  and  found  the  good  physician 
kinder  than  ever.  He  always  called  Vane 
"  my  son  "  now,  and  he  had  to  submit  to  nume- 
rous embraces,  a  proceeding  he  did  not  like, 
for  in  his  manners  Vane  had  that  clumsiness 
in  expressing  anything  emotional,  that  Gothic 
phlegm,  about  which  Saxons  grow  vainglori- 
ous, and  for  which  Celts  detest  them. 

Every  day  Vane  walked  in  the  garden  with 
his  mother — a  painful  duty,  for  she  never 
remembered  him.  Her  dementia  was  quite 
harmless  now,  and  she  sometimes  spoke  to 
Vane  of  himself,  not  knowing  him,  but  never 
mentioned  his  father.  Curiously  enough  her 
talk  was  much  of  Mary,  and  of  the  English  girl 
who  had  been  the  object  of  his  boyish  affec- 
tions. Vane  heard  casually  of  her  marriage 
that  summer,  and  was  more  surprised  than 


58  Henry  Vane. 

pleased  to  find  how  little  the  news  affected 
him. 

Once  in  a  while,  however,  he  caught  himself 
wondering  what  Miss  Thomas  was  doing ;  and 
a  week  after  his  arrival  he  received  a  note 
from  her  to  thank  him  for  the  flowers  he  had 
sent.  She  also  said  that  they  were  at  some 
place  in  Pennsylvania  for  the  summer,  far  from 
the  madding  crowd,  but  she  found  the  place 
very  stupid  and  the  people  inane.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  there.  The  men  were  all  young 
Philadelphians,  she  wrote,  and  generally  un- 
interesting. Vane  was  glad  to  get  the  note, 
and  of  course  never  thought  of  replying. 

At  this  time  Vane  was  a  handsome,  erect 
fellow,  with  a  large  aquiline  nose,  and  heavy 
eyebrows  shading  quiet  eyes.  Most  of  the 
people  knew  him  well  as  the  doctor's  pro- 
tege. One  day  the  good  old  doctor  came  to 
him  with  an  air  of  much  mysterious  impor- 
tance. He  passed  Vane's  arm  through  his,  and 
led  him  to  his  favorite  walk  up  and  down  the 
garden.  "  My  son,"  he  began,  tapping  him  on 


Henry  Vane.  59 

the  shoulder,  and  beginning  in  a  way  he  evi- 
dently thought  to  be  diplomatic,  "you  are 
growing  older,  and  it  is  not  good  for  you  to 
be  alone.  Listen!  it  is  time  you  should 
marry." 

Vane  looked  up  quickly,  and  then  struggled 
to  repress  a  smile. 

"Listen,  my  child,"  continued  the  doctor, 
much  pleased,  "  I  have  to  propose  a  parti  of 
the  most  charming — but  of  the  most  charming ! 
My  wife's  own  cousin  and  two  hundred  thou- 
sand livres  of  dot !  What  say  you  ?  " 

Vane  was  touched,  and  found  it  hard  to 
answer. 

"  My  child,"  the  old  man  went  on,  "  I  love 
you  like  my  own  son — my  own  son,  see  you  ? 
You  are  not  noble  de  naissance — mais,  le,  cceur — 
d'aitteurs,  neither  are  you  roturier,  non  plus.  I 
have  spoken  of  you  to  Madame  la  Comtesse  de 
la  Roche-aigue,  and  Madame  la  Comtesse  veut 
Men.  Her  daughter  is  charming — but  a  child 
adorable  !  You  will  let  me  present  you  comme 
futur — what  say  you? " 


60  Henry  Vane. 

Vane  bent  over  and  took  the  hand  of  his  old 
friend.  "  My  father,"  he  said,  "  I  would  do 
more  for  you  than  for  any  one  living.  You 
have  been  more  than  a  father  to  me.  God 
bless  you  for  it!  But  this  I  cannot  do.  I 
shall  never  marry."  Vane  spoke  seriously  and 
with  some  tragic  effect,  like  a  Manfred  or  a 
Werther. 

The  old  man  sighed  deeply.  He  knew  Vane 
too  well  to  press  the  matter.  "  Ah !  "  said  he, 
"you  say  you  will  never  marry.  I  know  better. 
You  have  seen  some  American — qudque  petite 
Americaine  rusee.  H8as !  and  we  might  all 
have  been  so  happy."  The  doctor  said  no 
more  on  the  subject,  but  was  sad  and  quiet 
during  the  rest  of  Vane's  visit. 

He  said  nothing  afterwards,  except  on 
Vane's  departure.  Then  he  pressed  his  hand : 
"  Ah,  consider,  my  child.  A  young  girl  of  the 
most  charming — of  the  most  charming — and 
two  hundred  thousand  livres  of  dot  1 "  Vane 
could  only  press  his  hand  in  return.  And  the 
last  he  saw  of  the  doctor,  he  was  standing  still 


Henry  Vane.  61 

upon  the  Dieppe  pier,  rubbing  his  nose  with 
an  immense  silk  pocket-handkerchief. 

This  was  Vane's  fifth  trip  across  the  Atlan- 
tic ;  and  for  the  first  time,  he  felt  glad  when 
the  vessel's  prow  turned  westward.  Brittany, 
for  him,  represented  the  past;  America  the 
future.  He  was  an  American,  after  all.  A 
day  after  his  arrival  he  would  be  immersed  in 
Wall  Street — up  in  all  the  mysteries  of  ex- 
change and  rates,  the  stock-list  his  breviary 
and  the  ribbon  of  telegraph  paper  his  oracle. 
Meanwhile,  however,  he  dozed  on  the  deck 
and  essayed  metrical  translations  of  Boccaccio. 
He  was  reading  the  tale  of  the  pot  of  basil  one 
day,  and  thought  for  about  half  a  morning  of 
Miss  Thomas.  What  she  had  to  do  with  his 
reading,  he  could  not  see.  But  she  was  quite 
the  most  interesting  figure  in  his  mental  gal- 
lery. A  curious  jumble  was  this  modern  state 
of  society,.  Hare  flowers  sprang  up  in  strange 
parterres  ;  exotics  grew  outside  of  hot-houses, 
and  common  whiteweed  inside.  There  ought 
to  be  some  method  of  social  transplanting; 


62  Henry  Vane. 

some  way  of  grafting  new  blossoms  on  an  old 
stock.  But  all  American  stock  was  good ; 
American  society  was  like  a  world  of  rounded 
pebbles  grating  on  a  beach  ;  the  buried  peb- 
bles were  quite  as  fine  as  those  on  top  ;  only 
these  were  more  stirred  and  polished,  so  their 
colors  came  out  best.  And  yet  what  common, 
poor  stuff  most  of  them  were,  after  all !  A 
pleasant  trade,  that  of  social  lapidary!  And 
Vane,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  took  note  of 
the  women  around  him.  There  was  a  Phila- 
delphia girl,  pretty  and  voluble  ;  there  was  a 
young  lady  from  Michigan,  who  had  been  to 
"  college  "  in  Massachusetts  and  finished  her- 
self abroad,  alone,  or  in  company  with  a  dear 
friend  from  Connecticut.  There  was  a  girl 
from  Cleveland,  wealthy,  marvellous,  inde- 
scribable ;  and  a  young  lady  from  New  Or- 
leans, with  all  the  fire  drawn  from  her  cheeks 
into  her  eyes.  There  was  a  girl — a  young 
woman,  a  young  lady — a  being  feminine,  from 
Boston,  weighing  and  analyzing  all  things 
within  her  somewhat  narrow  mental  horizon ; 


Henry  Vane.  63 

and  a  social  entity  from  New  York,  also  of 
the  feminine  variety,  but  of  orbit  predicable 
and  conventional  eccentricities,  her  life  a 
function  of  two  variables,  money  and  fashion. 
All  these  women  were  fair,  and  strange  to  him ; 
and  this,  perhaps,  was  the  only  day  of  his  life 
that  he  had  definitely  considered  women  from 
a  contemporary  point  of  view.  His  assured 
income  was  now  eight  thousand  a  year.  Four 
of  this  went  to  his  mother,  three  he  spent ; 
the  rest  he  saved. 

Coming  back  to  New  York,  he  plunged  into 
a  mass  of  accumulated  duties ;  it  was  a  week 
before  he  found  time  to  see  anything  of  John  ; 
and  two  weeks  before  he  called  on  Miss  Thomas. 
He  found  her  in  a  rather  different  mood  than 
usual ;  a  little  sadder,  a  shade  more  self-consci- 
ous. "  It  is  two  weeks  before  you  come  to  see 
me,  and  you  did  not  answer  my  letter,"  she  said. 

Vane  could  only  bow.  "If  I  had  only 
known  you  wished  me  to,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  well!  And  what  have  you  seen 
abroad?" 


64  Henry  Vane. 

"Nothing  of  interest  to  me  now." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  this  win- 
ter?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  Stick  to  my  trade,"  Vane 
added  laughingly. 

"  And  shall  we  not  go  on  with  our  read- 

ing?" 

"I  should  be  only  too  happy." 

"  What  a  conventional  expression  of  willing- 
ness— what  an  enthusiastic  acceptance !  " 

"  Conventions  are  the  safest  expressions  of 
the  truth." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  safest '  ?  " 

"The  safest  to  me." 

She  gave  a  little  laugh,  in  which  Vane  joined. 
"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  You  mean  you  are  too  skilful  a  fencer  to 
admit  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  *  fencing '  ?  " 

"  The  manner  of  our  conversations." 

"  You  mean  that  it  is  not  sincere — that  it  is 
badinage  ?  Why  do  you  do  it,  then  ?  " 

"  I  am  only  too  ready  to  change  our  grouncl" 


Henry  Vane.  65 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean." 

Vane  bowed  his  disbelief  in  this  remark 
and  rose  to  go. 

"  Ah !  do  not  go  yet.  I  am  so  lonely  to-day, 
and  it  is  just  the  hour  of  the  day  when  there  is 
nothing  to  do.  I  have  no  work  and  my  poor 
eyes  are  too  weak  to  read.  They  are  not  even 
useful!" 

"  Why  do  you  imply  they  are  not  ornamen- 
tal ?  Why  do  you  say  what  you  do  not  mean  ?  " 

"But  I  do  mean  it." 

"  You  know  you  have  lovely  eyes." 

"  I  thought  you  never  made  compliments," 
she  said  with  a  little  pleased  laugh. 

"  You  see  your  weak  eyes  are  strong  enough 
to  keep  me  here."  And  rising  to  go,  he  ex- 
tended his  hand. 

"  Ah  !  do  not  go  yet."  And  taking  his  hand, 
she  almost  detained  it  gently.  "  I  am  so  glad 
to  see  you  once  more." 

Vane  laughed  again.  "Have  you  read  De 
Musset's  'II  faut  qu'une  porte  soit  ouverte  ou 
fermee'?" 


66  Henry  Vane. 

"  No  ;  but  I  will  read  it.     Why  ?  " 

"  Because  my  calls  resemble  that  one.  I 
am  continually  opening  the  door  to  go.  Now 
if  my  call  could  have  the  same  ending ! "  he 
added  gallantly. 

She  colored.  "  She  has  read  it,"  thought 
Vane.  "  Halte-la  !  "  And  this  time,  perhaps 
rather  precipitately,  he  took  his  leave  for 
good.  Miss  Thomas  gave  another  of  her  little 
pleased  laughs,  after  he  had  closed  the  door. 
Vane  had  been  thoroughly  amused,  and  walked 
in  a  very  contented  frame  of  mind  to  John's. 
Coming  into  his  smoking-room,  he  took  a  cigar 
and  threw  himself  at  full  length  upon  the 
lounge.  He  could  afford  occasionally  to  smoke 
and  take  life  easily  now  ;  it  was  different  with 
him  from  the  times,  three  years  back,  when  he 
used  to  get  his  own  breakfast  in  the  little 
rooms  on  Washington  Place. 

"  Well,  old  man,  how  goes  it  ?  "  said  John, 
looking  up  with  a  light  of  friendship  in  his 
gray  eyes  which  Vane's  coming  always  brought 
to  them. 


Henry  Vane.  67 

"  Capitally  !  I  have  been  passing  the  after- 
noon with  Miss  Thomas." 

"  And  how  was  she  ?  Fascinating  as 
ever?" 

"  Fascinating  is  not  the  word  I  like  to  use 
of  her.  It  implies  conscious  effort." 

Vane  was  evidently  off  on  a  thesis,  and  Havi- 
and  settled  himself  on  the  sofa  with  a  pipe. 
"  I  have  seen  many  women  whom  the  world 
calls  fascinating,  and  they  never  attracted  me 
at  all.  We  look,  admire  and  pass  on.  Now, 
Miss  Thomas  has  all  the  brightness  of  a  woman 
of  the  world,  with  the  simplicity  of  a  country 
maiden.  If  she  has  any  charm,  it  is  because 
she  is  just  herself,  as  Nature  made  her."  Vane 
spoke  with  the  air  of  a  knight  defending  aban- 
doned beauty. 

"  By  the  way  (if  you  have  finished  your  essay 
on  an  inamorata),  I  saw  Ten  Eyck  to-day.  He 
has  come  back  from  London,  with  a  chance  of 
being  ambassador  to  Madrid,  and  is  a  better 
match  than  ever." 

"  Ten  Eyck  ?     Who  is  Ten  Eyck  ?      Oh !  I 


68  Henry  Vane. 

remember.     Well,   and  what  of  it?"     Vane 
added,  after  a  pause. 

"  Oh !  nothing,  nothing  at  all.  He  is  the 
son  of  one  of  our  New  York  Senators,  you 
know ;  and  has  a  brilliant  future  before  him." 

"  Bah  !  The  most  brilliant  future  a  woman 
can  have  is  a  future  with  a  man  who  loves 
her." 

"  And  where  did  you  pick  up  that  aphorism  ? 
Not  from  your  French  education,  surely  ?  I 
believe  Miss  Thomas  loves  him." 

"  I  may  not  be  up  in  American  ideas,  John, 
owing  to  the  French  education  you  sneer  at ; 
but  I  certainly  was  brought  up  to  resent  a  re- 
mark like  that,  made  of  a  young  girl  I  like." 

"  I  don't  see  what  there  is  insulting  in  say- 
ing that  a  woman — for  she  is  a  woman,  as  you 
yourself  admit — loves  a  man.  I  think  it  rather 
a  compliment.  American  women  rarely  do,  I 
can  assure  you.  Their  natures  are  like  a  New 
England  spring — the  sun  must  do  a  devilish 
deal  of  wooing  before  even  so  much  as  a  green 
tendril  is  visible."  And  Haviland,  who  was 


Henry  Vane.  69 

•  • 

just  then  devoted  to  the  young  lady  of  Puritan 
descent  whom  he  has  since  married,  fetched  a 
deep  sigh. 

Vane  began  to  laugh  again. 

"  Well,  well.  In  time,  I,  too,  shall  become  a 
New  Yorker.  And  by  the  way,  John,  speaking 
of  that — is  it  customary  here  to  invite  a  young 
lady  to  go  to  walk  with  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  certainly,  if  you  like.  Miss  Thomas 
has  gone  many  a  time,  I  fancy." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  Miss  Thomas,"  said 
Vane,  pettishly. 


VIII. 

VANE  had  not  intended  to  go  to  Mrs.  Ros- 
ter's ball  the  next  night ;  but  he  went, 
nevertheless.  Vane  was  always  a  rather  cyni- 
cal spectator  at  large  parties  in  New  York. 
Somehow,  it  was  so  different  from  all  that  he 
had  hoped;  it  was  so  like  Paris,  with  more 
frivolity  and  fewer  social  gifts.  A  cynic  is 
commonly  a  snubbed  sentimentalist,  who  takes 
it  out  in  growling.  Vane  had  sought  the 
world  because  he  was  lonely ;  but  it  seemed  to 
him  more  than  ever  that  he  was  much  less 
lonely  when  alone.  It  is  isolation,  not  loneli- 
ness, that  saddens  a  man  of  sense;  for  his 
sense  tells  him  that  it  is  the  world  which  is 
likely  to  be  right,  and  proves  him  a  solitary 
fool. 

This  evening  Vane  did  devote  himself  to 
Miss  Thomas ;  and  a  charming  conversation 
they  had.  "  You  are  quite  different  from  what 


Henry  Vane.  71 

I  thought  you  were,"  she  said.  "I  used  to 
think  you  were  serious  and  queer." 

"  Keally,"  said  Vane ;  "  and  what  do  you 
think  me  now  ?  " 

"At  least,  I  do  not  think  you  serious  and 
queer.  Certainly,  not  serious" 

"  But  I  am." 

"Can  that  be?"  There  was  a  heightened 
color  in  her  cheek. 

"  As  you  see  me.  Will  you  go  to  walk  with 
me  next  Sunday  afternoon?  " 

Miss  Thomas  looked  up  suddenly  with  her 
soft  eyes;  then  as  suddenly  cast  them  down 
again.  Vane  must  have  seen  that  she  blushed 
a  little. 

"Yes."  And  then,  "if  you  do  not  leave 
Fifth  Avenue,"  she  added. 

"  After  that  I  shall  certainly  ask  you  to  go 
into  the  Park,"  he  said. 

"  You  had  better  not — at  least  not  before  the 
Sunday  afternoon — or  I  will  not  go  with  you  at 
all,"  laughed  Miss  Baby,  roguishly. 

Vane  bent  and  took  her  hand  for  a  moment ; 


72  Henry  Vane. 

as  it  hung  among  the  orange  leaves  in  the  con- 
servatory. Then  he  bowed  and  left  her  with- 
out an  apology.  She  did  not  draw  her  hand 
away ;  and  as  Vane  looked  back  at  her  from 
the  door  she  was,  this  time,  blushing  violently. 
Vane  himself  walked  home  in  a  somewhat  agi- 
tated frame  of  mind,  and  went  to  sleep ;  and 
when  he  woke  up  in  the  morning,  he  discov- 
ered that  he  was  very  much  in  love  with  Baby 
Thomas.  This  discovery  caused  him  more 
surprise  than  disapproval ;  and  yet  he  felt 
bound  to  confess  himself  a  good  deal  of  a 
fool. 

He  thought  of  it  several  times  during  the 
day,  in  the  intervals  of  business,  and  not  with- 
out considerable  mental  invective.  However, 
as  he  walked  home  in  the  afternoon,  he  became 
less  out  of  humor  with  himself.  She  certainly 
was  a  very  charming  girl,  and  well  worth 
winning.  At  all  events  it  was  pleasant  to  be 
in  love  with  her.  He  expected  to  see  her  that 
evening,  and  the  prospect  gave  him  a  great 
deal  of  happiness,  not  without  a  slight  season- 


Henry  Vane.  73 

ing  of  excitement,  that  made  quite  a  novel 
enjoyment  in  his  life.  Certainly,  he  reflected, 
he  was  very  much  in  love.  It  was  surprising 
how  it  had  grown  in  the  night — like  Jack  and 
his  bean-stalk.  However,  he  saw  no  particular 
reason  why  he  should  try  to  cut  it  down.  Per- 
haps he  secretly  doubted  whether  he  could  do 
so  if  he  chose ;  and  the  doubt  was  agreeable. 

Miss  Thomas  was  not  at  the  party  that 
evening ;  and  Yane  found  himself  a  little, 
uneasy  in  consequence.  He  left  early,  and 
went  to  see  John  Haviland. 

"  John,"  said  he,  "  I  am  in  love  with  Miss 
Thomas." 

"  Many  of  us  have  been  through  that,"  said 
John,  calmly ;  "  it  is  not  fatal." 

"But,"  said  Vane,  "my  constitution  may 
be  more  delicate.  I  am  not  a  hide-bound 
rhinoceros." 

"Neither,"  said  John,  "am  L"  And  he 
defended  the  aspersion  upon  his  epidermis 
with  a  quadrupedal  sigh. 

"  But  I  want  to  marry  her." 


74  Henry  Vane. 

"  That  is  also  a  symptom.     You  need  not  do 

it,  however." 

"  What  do  you  know  against  her  ?  " 
"  Nothing ;  but  Ten  Eyck  has  rather  too 

heavy  a  prior  mortgage." 
"  I  don't  care  for  Ten  Eyck." 
"  The  question  is,  whether  she  does." 
"  I  know  very  well  that  she  can't." 
"  She  would  hardly  wish  you  to  know  the 

opposite,  if  the  opposite  were  true." 

"  Bah !  I  know  something  about  women " 

"  The  devil  himself  can't  know  a  woman  who 

doesn't  know  herself." 

"  Anyhow,  it  is  a  free  field " 

"  And  plenty  of  favor." 

"  She  hasn't  seen  Ten  Eyck  for  years " 

"  The  last  time  was  this  afternoon." 

"What?" 

"  I  saw  them  walking  on  Fourth  Avenue,  as 

I  came  up-town  in  a  horse-car." 

"  Humph ! "  said  Vane,  and  he  dropped  the 

conversation. 
For  some  weeks  he  said  nothing  more  to 


Henry  Vane.  75 

John  about  Miss  Thomas;  and  during  that 
time  he  was  trying,  with  more  or  less  success, 
to  persuade  himself  of  his  own  folly.  But  he 
found  it  more  easy  to  bend  his  energies  to  the 
subjugation  of  Miss  Thomas's  heart  than  of  his 
own.  And  John  noticed  that  he  left  his  busi- 
ness rather  earlier  in  the  afternoon  than  usual, 
and  always  took  the  Fourth  Avenue  car  up 
town.  In  his  evenings  he  exhausted  a  large 
part  of  the  most  cynical  French  literature  in 
convincing  himself  that  he  was  a  fool.  But  in 
spite  of  Balzac  and  Scribe,  he  found  that  he 
looked  forward  anxiously  to  the  evenings  when 
he  was  to  meet  her ;  and  it  was  more  easy  for 
him  to  laugh  at  his  own  infatuation — no, 
interest  was  the  name  he  gave  it — than  to 
go  for  a  couple  of  days  without  seeing  its 
object. 

The  first  Sunday  that  he  let  pass  without  a 
visit,  he  was  very  nervous  all  the  evening,  and 
going  to  bed  early  made  a  vain  effort  to  sleep. 
What  a — qualified — fool  he  was,  and  yet  how 
he  did  love  that  girl!  He  got  up  and  read 


76  Henry  Vane. 

Heine  by  way  of  disillusion,  and  opened  the 
book  at  the  quatrain, 

"  Wer  zum  ersten  Male  liebt 
Sei's  auch  glQcklos,  ist  ein  Gott ; 
Aber  wer  zum  zweiten  Male 
Glilcklos  liebt,  Der  ist  ein  Narr." 

How  good !  How  very  good !  And  Vane  laid 
the  book  down  with  much  applause. 

Decidedly  the  best  way  to  win  Miss  Thomas 
was  to  give  her  her  own  way.  He  could  leave 
her  to  her  own  devices  for  a  time.  If  she  loved 
Ten  Eyck,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  by 
seeing  her ;  if  she  did  not,  a  little  delay  would 
do  no  harm.  If  she  loved  nobody,  his  chance 
was  assured. 

This  settled,  Vane  went  to  bed  with  the  easy 
mind  of  a  general  who  has  planned  the  morn- 
ing's march. 


IX. 


VANE'S  strategy  was  doubtless  perfect ;  but 
in  the  morning  he  found  a  note  sealed 
and  superscribed  in  a  charmingly  pretty  fem- 
inine hand.  "  Dear  Mr.  Vane,"  it  began,  "  Miss 
Roster's  skating  party  has  been  given  up. 
Bhe  begged  me  to  tell  you ;  but,  as  I  have 
not  seen  you,  I  feel  obliged  to  send  you  this 
note.  If  you  have  nothing  better  to  do,  why 
will  not  you  come  that  evening?  It  is  so 
long  since  we  have  read  together. — Winifred 
Thomas." 

"Now,"  thought  Vane,  "why  should  Miss 
Roster  send  word  to  him  by  Miss  Thomas  ?  " 
He  felt  that  he  could  not  be  positively  rude,  so 
at  eight  in  the  evening  he  presented  himself. 
Miss  Thomas  was  apparently  alone  in  the 
house.  She  was  sitting  in  the  parlor,  with  no 
light  but  that  of  the  fire,  into  which  she  was 
looking  with  her  deep  blue  eyes  ;  her  face  was 


78  Henry  Vane. 

pale,  except  that  one  cheek  was  rosy  with  the 
heat,  imperfectly  screened  from  the  flame  with 
her  fan.  She  received  Vane  coldly ;  he  drew  up  a 
chair,  noticing,  as  he  did  so,  her  foot,  which  was 
covered  only  with  a  slipper  and  a  thin  web  of 
open-work  black  stocking,  and  was  very  pretty. 

Miss  Thomas  seemed  distraite  and  depressed ; 
he  had  never  seen  her  in  that  mood  before, 
and  sought  in  vain  to  draw  her  into  conversa- 
tion. She  answered  only  in  monosyllables  and 
still  looked  dreamily  into  the  fire.  Vane  felt 
as  if  he  had  unwittingly  offended  her.  Fin- 
ally, just  as  he  rose  to  go — 

"  Why  are  you  so  strange  to-night  ?  " 

"  I— I  ?  "  stammered  Vane. 

"Yes."  She  lifted  her  small  head  and 
looked  full  at  him.  It  seemed  as  if  there  was 
a  tear  lost  somewhere  in  the  depth  of  her  eyes. 
Vane  became  conscious  that  he  was  a  brute, 
and  thought  for  the  first  time,  odd  as  it  may 
seem,  of  the  walk  which  he  had  asked  her  to 
take  the  Sunday  before.  He  had  forgotten  the 
walk  entirely. 


Henry  Fane.  79 

"  I  had  suddenly  to  go  to  Pittsburg."  This 
was  true ;  but  he  had  returned  on  the  Satur- 
day. And  yet  he  felt  that  he  must  say  some- 
thing, if  only  to  suppress  his  growing  inclina- 
tion to  take  her  hand  in  his. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  she  wonder- 
ingly.  They  were  both  sitting  ;  Vane  staring 
at  her  helplessly. 

"  Why,  when  I  broke  our  engagement  to  go 

to  walk "  Truly  he  was  floundering  more 

than  ever. 

"  Oh !  were  we  engaged  to  go  to  walk  ?  " 

A  pretty  mess  he  had  made  of  it  indeed. 

"I  am  only  too  glad  you  have  forgotten,"  he 
said  ;  and  then  rising,  with  an  awkward  bow, 
he  got  himself  and  his  shattered  reputation  for 
sav&irfaire  out  of  the  room.  After  putting  on 
his  overcoat,  he  turned  back  to  the  threshold 
of  the  parlor.  "  Will  you  go  to  walk  next  Sun- 
day?" he  asked  bluntly. 

"  I  must  go  to  church  that  afternoon.  I  am 
so  sorry." 

Vane  bowed  again,  and  took  his  departure 


80  Henry  Vane. 

more  piqued  than  he  was  willing  to  acknowl- 
edge. As  he  went  down  the  steps  he  heard  a 
few  chords  upon  the  piano.  It  was  the  begin- 
ning of  the  love-song  from  Francesca  da 
Rimini.  After  all,  he  thought,  why  should  he 
be  offended?  She  had  behaved  just  as  he 
should  have  wished  her  to.  He  could  hardly 
expect  her  to  acknowledge  that  she  had  waited 
for  him  in  vain.  How  pretty  she  had  looked 
in  the  firelight ! 

The  next  Sunday,  about  sunset,  as  he  and 
John  were  returning  from  a  long  walk  in  the 
country,  two  figures  came  out  of  a  small 
church  on  Sixth  Avenue,  well  known  for  the 
excellence  of  its  music.  Miss  Thomas  was 
one,  the  other  John  recognized  as  Ten  Eyck. 
She  did  not  seem  to  see  them,  but  the  two 
walked  rapidly  ahead  of  them  the  length  of 
the  block,  and  then  turned  down  a  side  street. 
Vane  pretended  to  be  wholly  unconscious  of 
the  scene.  John  alone  gave  a  grunt  of  sur- 
prise. And  for  two  weeks  or  more  Vane 
treated  Miss  Thomas  with  alternate  neglect 


Henry  Vane.  81 

and  familiarity  when  he  met  her  in  society ; 
the  former  when  he  found  it  possible  to  avoid 
her,  the  latter  when  he  was  necessarily  thrown 
with  her.  One  night  at  a  german  she  gave 
him  a  favor.  Vane,  after  dancing  with  her, 
felt  obliged,  in  common  politeness,  to  talk  with 
her  for  a  few  moments.  He  sought  refuge 
in  that  sort  of  clumsy  pleasantry  which  our 
English  models  have  taught  us  to  call  chaff; 
she  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  him  wonder- 
ingly,  with  large  troubled  eyes.  She  seemed 
as  if  grieved  at  his  manner  and  too  proud  to 
reproach  him  with  it.  Could  she  really  love 
the  man  ?  thought  Vane.  How  could  she  ?  He 
felt  as  if  the  suspicion  did  her  an  injury. 
Vane's  heart  melted  to  her  as  he  came  home 
that  night.  He  had  mentally  judged  her  as 
he  would  have  judged  a  woman  in  one  of  his 
cynical  French  comedies.  He  had  treated  her 
like  a  character  in  a  seventeenth  century  me- 
moir. And  how  much  above  such  judgment 
was  this  sweet  American  girl !  She  was  fond 

of  her  friends,  and  true  to  them,  and  frank  to 
6 


82  Henry  Vane. 

him,  so  that  he  saw  that  she  cared  for  him. 
What  did  she  know  of  the  world,  or  of  older 
societies,  or  the  women  in  his  wicked  French 
memoirs?  She  lived  in  new,  pure,  honest 
America ;  not  in  the  chronicles  of  the  (Eil-de- 
Ixeuf.  And  Vane  felt  that  the  best  amends  he 
could  make  was  to  ask  her  to  become  his  wife. 
When  he  hinted  this  intention  to  Haviland 
that  philosopher,  for  the  first  and  only  time  in 
his  life,  improvised  a  couplet : 

"  Jamais  la  femme  ne  varie, 
Bieii  fol  est  tou jours  qui  s'y  fie." 

Having  got  off  this  gatha,  John  retired  to 
his  pipe,  and  became,  like  a  Hindoo  god,  im- 
passive, ugly,  and  impenetrable. 


X. 


FOB  some  weeks  Yane  rested  satisfied  with 
the  conclusions  arrived  at  in  the  last  chap- 
ter. It  was  so  satisfactory  to  have  made  such 
a  resolve ;  and  besides,  there  was  no  cause  for 
hastening  the  event.  There  was  singularly 
little  impulse  in  his  inclination.  Most  cer- 
tainly, he  meant  to  put  his  fate  to  the  test; 
but  not  at  point-blank  range.  Vane  was  cool 
enough  to  proceed  warily ;  and  he  still  clung 
sufficiently  to  the  precepts  of  his  French  au- 
thorities in  matters  feminine  to  know  better 
than  that.  For  a  repulse  always  puts  the  gar- 
rison on  its  guard,  and  doubles  the  difficulty  of 
investment;  and  a  woman's  heart  should  be 
taken  by  siege,  not  assault.  Other  supplies 
should  be  cut  off;  and  then  the  citadel  be  un- 
dermined and  sapped  in  a  quiet  way.  The 
attacker  should  imply  boundless  admiration, 
without  actually  committing  himself  to  a  more 


84  Henry  Vane. 

particular  sentiment — flirtation  from  behind 
earthworks — and  so,  without  being  exposed  to 
rebuff,  gradually  surround  her  with  such  an 
atmosphere  of  incense  that  at  last  it  becomes 
indispensable  to  her;  and,  after  one  or  two 
futile  sallies,  she  falls  before  his  arms.  This 
is  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent ;  but  Vane  knew 
that  it  was  never  wasted  on  a  woman,  however 
sweet  and  dovelike ;  if  you  wish  her  to  take 
your  attentions  seriously,  you  should  make  her 
think  they  are  not  serious.  And  if  Vane  was 
willing  to  marry,  he  had  no  mind  to  be  refused. 
When  Vane  expounded  these  theories  to  John, 
the  latter  seemed  relieved. 

A  lover  in  New  York  is  at  no  loss  for  oppor- 
tunities to  win,  if  he  has  leisure  to  woo ;  but 
Vane  suffered  many  chances  to  pass  by  with- 
out improving  them.  Perhaps  he  was  dissat- 
isfied with  his  love,  with  himself,  with  his  life 
as  he  found  it ;  he  remembered,  like  all  boys, 
trying  to  live  as  if  he  were  the  hero  of  a  novel ; 
now  it  was  altogether  too  difficult  not  to  live 
like  the  hero  of  a  comedy.  Vane  abhorred  the 


Henry  Vane.  85 

eighteenth  century,  and  all  its  belongings ;  but 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  world  around  him, 
and  himself  as  part  of  it,  were  subjects  apter 
to  a  Congreve  than  a  Homer. 

All  the  more,  he  sought  to  wind  his  affec- 
tions around  their  object ;  he  would  not  admit 
to  himself  that  there  was  something  wanting, 
even  in  her.  But  the  winter  was  nearly  over 
before  he  resolved  to  take  any  decisive  step ; 
and  Miss  Thomas  had  been  growing  pret- 
tier every  day.  Mrs.  Levison  Gower  was  to 
give  a  sleigh-ride.  They  were  to  drive  in  a 
procession  of  single  sleighs,  and  stop  at  some 
one's  country  house  for  an  hour's  skating. 
This  opportunity  would  be  most  propitious; 
and  Vane  decided  that  Miss  Baby  Thomas 
should  be  his  companion. 

Miss  Thomas  seemed  really  very  sorry. 
Vane  admitted  this  afterwards,  when  he  sought 
to  reason  himself  out  of  his  consequent  ill- 
humor.  But  she  was  already  engaged  to  ride 
that  day  in  Mr.  Wemyss's  sleigh.  It  was  so  un- 
fortunate, and  she  was  so  much  disappointed ! 


86  Henry  Vane. 

Vane,  however,  decided  to  postpone  his  propo- 
sal of  marriage  to  some  other  occasion ;  so  he 
drove  out  sedately  with  the  young  and  beauti- 
ful chaperone.  With  her  he  made  no  suf- 
ficient effort  at  flirtation,  and  Mrs.  Gower 
never  forgave  him  the  omission. 

The  ice  was  very  good ;  and  Vane  was  dis- 
porting himself  meditatively  in  one  corner  of 
the  pond  when  Miss  Thomas  whirled  by  him 
on  the  "outer  edge."  Mis&  Thomas  was  a 
beautiful  skater;  and,  as  she  passed,  she 
stretched  out  a  crooked  cane  as  if  inviting  him 
to  join  her.  Vane  had  no  desire  to  refuse ; 
and  in  a  minute  the  two  were  rolling  along  in 
strong,  sweeping  curves,  the  girl's  blue  eyes 
gleaming  with  excitement  beneath  their  long 
black  lashes.  Her  eyes  had  the  still,  violet 
blue  of  a  cleft  in  a  glacier;  Vane  could  not 
help  looking  into  them  once  or  twice.  The 
ice  was  broken. 

Neither  of  them  had  much  to  say  \  but  for 
an  hour  or  more  they  skated  together.  The 
crooked  stick,  proving  too  long,  was  soon  dis- 


Henry  Vane.  87 

carded;  and  they  skated  hand  in  hand.  On 
the  shore,  Wemyss  was  devoting  himself  to  the 
matron.  He  could  not  skate. 

Finally,  the  signal  of  recall  was  given.  Miss 
Thomas  made  no  movement  in  the  direction 
of  the  return,  and  Vane  was  naturally  too  po- 
lite to  make  the  first.  They  could  see  Mrs. 
Gower  at  the  other  end  of  the  pond,  skurrying 
about,  like  a  young  hen  after  her  chickens. 
Suddenly  Miss  Thomas  discovered  that  they 
ought  to  go  back ;  but  when  they  returned  to 
the  shore  they  were  the  last  of  the  party,  and 
had  the  log,  which  served  the  purpose  of  a 
seat,  to  themselves.  Vane  stooped  to  take  off 
his  companion's  skates,  and  in  shaking  them 
free  Miss  Thomas  brought  the  blade  of  one 
across  his  hand  with  some  force,  causing  a 
slight  scratch  on  the  back  of  his  finger.  She 
gave  a  little  cry  of  horror,  and  then,  as  the 
finger  bled  profusely,  pulled  out  her  own 
handkerchief,  and,  before  Vane  could  prevent 
her,  bound  it  around  the  wound. 

"  It  was  my  fault,"   said  she.     "  You  can 


88  Henry  Vane. 

give  the  handkerchief  to  me  when  we  next 
meet" 

As  they  walked  back,  Vane,  dropping  be- 
hind, unwound  the  handkerchief  and  put  it  in 
an  inside  pocket,  then  drew  his  glove  hastily 
over  the  scratch,  which  had  already  stopped 
bleeding. 

Going  home,  Mrs.  Gower  found  Vane  much 
more  interesting.  The  heat  of  the  noon  had 
melted  the  snow,  so  that  the  sleighing  was  not 
good,  and  it  was  dusk  before  they  got  into  the 
city.  But  when  Vane  left  Mrs.  Grower's  house 
for  his  own  dinner,  the  sleigh  which  contained 
Miss  Thomas  had  not  returned,  though  Wemyss 
was  there,  having  driven  back  with  Miss  Bel- 
lamy. Coming  to  his  rooms,  Vane  unfolded 
the  little  handkerchief  and  kissed  it ;  and  that 
night,  when  he  went  to  sleep,  it  was  in  his 
hand  beneath  the  pillow.  In  the  morning,  he 
looked  at  it.  It  was  a  cheap  little  thing 
enough,  made  of  pieces  of  linen  or  muslin 
stuff,  looking  like  dolls'  clothes  sewed  together, 
but  giving  the  effect  of  lace  at  a  distance. 


Henry  Vane.  89 

Vane  went  to  a  store  on  Broadway  and  pur- 
chased a  handkerchief  of  the  same  size,  of  old 
point  lace,  and  the  same  afternoon  called  upon 
Miss  Thomas.  "  I  have  brought  you  your 
handkerchief,"  said  he,  giving  her  the  one  he 
had  bought,  folded  up.  "I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  lending  to  me." 

Miss  Thomas  took  it,  looked  at  it  for  a 
moment,  then  at  him  and  thanked  him.  "It 
was  of  no  consequence,"  said  she.  "  It  was  an 
old  one."  Vane  went  home,  much  excited,  per- 
haps a  trifle  disturbed  in  mind.  Such  a  rapid 
victory  had  hardly  been  foreseen  by  him.  She 
had  taken  from  him,  as  a  present,  a  valuable 
bit  of  lace ;  which  must  certainly  mean  that 
she  would  take  him,  if  he  offered  himself. 
And  he  was  not  quite  sure,  now  that  the  pros- 
pect was  so  near,  that  he  really  wished  to 
marry  Miss  Baby  Thomas.  He  liked  her  im- 
mensely, and  she  certainly  amused  him  more 
than  any  other  girl  he  knew ;  but  he  was  not 
quite  sure  that  he  wished  to  marry — at  all. 
Now  that  the  prize  was  within  his  reach,  he 


90  Henry  Vane. 

shrank  back  a  little  from  plucking  it.  Four 
years  ago,  in  Brittany,  Vane  had  felt  himself 
an  old  man ;  but  now  it  seemed  that  he  was 
"  ower  young  to  marry  yet."  These  thoughts 
gave  him  much  trouble  ;  and  in  the  meantime 
he  abstained  from  further  complication  by  not 
calling  on  Miss  Thomas,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
subjected  himself  to  much  self-analysis.  Could 
he  honestly  be  content  to  go  through  life  with 
this  girl  by  his  side  ?  He  knew  enough  of  life 
to  know  that  it  mattered  very  little  how  often 
a  man  made  a  fool  of  himself,  if  he  did  not  do 
so  on  the  day  when  he  got  married.  Now  Miss 
Thomas  was  certainly  a  very  nice,  sweet  girl- 
but  did  he  love  her  enough  to  marry  her? 
The  outcome  of  his  deliberation  was  in  the 
affirmative  ;  but — another  but. 

Ten  days  had  elapsed  since  he  gave  her  the 
handkerchief,  when  finally,  one  Sunday  after- 
noon, he  called  to  see  her.  He  half  expected 
that  he  should  ask  her  to  marry  him.  But  he 
did  not  do  so.  When  the  call  was  nearly  over, 
she  excused  herself  for  a  moment,  and,  going 


Henry  Vane.  91 

upstairs,  returned  with  the  handkerchief  in  her 
hand.  "  You  have  brought  back  the  wrong 
handkerchief,"  said  she.  Vane  started  with  a 
shock  of  surprise  he  could  not  repress. 

"  I — I  brought  the  wrong  one  ?  "  he  said 
awkwardly. 

"Yes." 

"  It  was  the  one  you  gave  me." 

"  Oh,  no  !  it  was  not   This  one  is  real  lace." 

"  The — the  washerwoman  must  have  made  a 
mistake." 

Miss  Thomas  said  nothing. 

"You  must  keep  it  all  the  same,  Miss 
Thomas." 

"I  cannot  keep  what  belongs  to  other 
people,"  said  she  unappreciatively. 

Vane  bit  his  lips.  "  I — I  will  make  it  right 
with  the  washerwoman,"  said  he  clumsily. 

Miss  Thomas's  look  was  more  hopelessly 
unsympathetic  than  ever ;  and,  folding  the  bit 
of  lace,  she  laid  it  on  the  table  by  his  elbow. 

"  The  fact  is,"  Vane  went  on,  with  a  pre- 
tended burst  of  confidence,  "  the  one  you  lent 


92  Henry  Vane. 

me  was  ruined  :  so  I  did  get  this  one  instead. 
Please  take  it." 

"  It  is  much  more  valuable  than  mine,"  said 
she  coldly. 

"  Please  take  it,"  said  Vane  again,  with  the 
iteration  of  a  school-boy. 

Miss  Thomas  began  to  take  offence. 

"How  can  you  expect  me  to  do  such  a  thing?  " 
said  she,  rising  as  if  to  dismiss  him.  Evidently 
a  bold  push  was  necessary.  He  took  the  bit 
of  lace  and  threw  it  quickly  into  the  open  fire, 
counting  on  the  feminine  instinct  which  would 
not  suffer  her  to  see  old  lace  destroyed.  With 
a  little  cry,  Miss  Thomas  bent  down  and 
pulled  it  from  the  coals. 

"  Let  it  burn,"  said  he,  rising  and  putting 
on  his  gloves.  "  If  you  do  not  want  it,  I  am 
sure  I  do  not."  And  he  silently  refused  to 
take  the  handkerchief,  pretending  to  busy 
his  hands  with  his  hat  and  cane.  "  Good-by," 
said  he. 

"  Good-by,"  replied  Miss  Thomas,  coldly,  lay- 
ing the  handkerchief  back  on  the  centre-table. 


Henry  Vane.  93 

When  Vane  got  to  the  hall  he  looked  at 
her  a  moment  in  turning  to  open  the  front 
door.  She  was  standing  before  the  fire  with 
a  heightened  color  in  her  face,  whether  of  a 
blush  or  anger  he  could  not  tell. 


XI. 


TTANE  went  home  much  discontented  with 
*  himself.  He  had  not  only  behaved  like 
an  ass,  but  he  had  made  a  blunder.  He  had 
gone  much  further  than  he  meant  to  in  seeking 
not  to  go  so  far.  And  he  found  that  he  loved 
her  more  than  he  thought,  now  that  he  had 
displeased  her.  He  wanted  diversion  that 
night,  and  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Miss 
Thomas  was  his  usual  diversion.  John  was 
away.  Finally,  after  dinner,  he  happened 
into  "Wallack's  theatre — it  was  the  interval 
between  the  first  and  second  acts.  The  first 
person  that  he  saw  was  Miss  Thomas,  and  a 
young  man  in  evening  dress  was  seated  next 
her.  Vane  paid  little  attention  to  the  play, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  second  act  he  went  out 
without  speaking  to  her. 

This  was   simply   incredible !    Vane  could 
not  conceive  of  it.     It  was  a  pitch  of  innocence 


Henry  Vane.  95 

beyond  the  range  of  imagination  of  a  man 
educated  in  France.  This  was  America  with  a 
vengeance.  It  must  be  that  she  did  not  care 
what  people  said.  Could  she  know  that  bets 
were  made  at  the  club  upon  the  state  of  her 
own  affections  and  the  sincerity  of  her  ad- 
mirers ?  Vane  was  much  offended.  He  was 
angry  with  her  for  her  own  sake.  At  first  he 
thought  he  would  go  and  tell  her  so  ;  then  he 
reflected  that  the  affair  of  the  handkerchief 
would  put  him  in  rather  a  false  position,  and, 
after  all,  she  was  not  worth  the  trouble.  For 
the  present,  at  least,  he  would  not  go  near  her. 
The  next  night  Vane  went  to  a  "  german  " 
at  Mrs.  Haviland's.  Miss  Thomas' was  there 
dancing  with  Mr.  Wemyss.  She  received  him 
very  pleasantly.  He  danced  with  her  once  or 
twice,  and  then  sat  down  beside  her,  Wemyss 
not  coming  back.  Miss  Thomas  was  dressed 
in  a  white,  cloudy  dress,  with  sprays  of  violet 
and  smilax.  A  wreath  of  the  green  vine  was 
in  her  black  hair,  and  she  had  a  large  bouquet 
of  the  violets  in  her  hand,  nearly  the  color  of 


96  Henry  Vane. 

her  eyes.  The  dress  was  cut  low  to  a  point 
in  front  and  behind,  showing  the  superb  poise 
of  her  small  head  upon  her  neck.  Whoever 
had  sent  her  flowers  must  have  known  what 
her  dress  was  to  be,  or  he  could  not  have  sent 
her  the  violets  to  match. 

When  Vane  left,  he  had  made  an  appoint- 
ment for  a  walk  the  next  fine  afternoon.  She 
had  said  nothing  about  the  handkerchief. 
Vane  feared,  every  morning,  to  find  the  parcel 
containing  it  at  his  rooms,  but  it  was  not  sent 
back.  He  was  encouraged  by  this,  and  began 
to  make  excuses  to  himself  for  her  being  at 
the  theatre.  This  still  gave  him  much  anxiety, 
and  he  half  decided  that  he  would  speak  to 
her  about  it. 

At  last  there  came  a  fine  day  for  the  walk, 
and  Vane  called  at  her  house  at  four.  He  had 
also  called  one  day  before,  but  she  had  com- 
plained that  it  was  too  cloudy  and  looked  like 
rain.  This  day  he  found  her  ready.  They 
went  up  Fifth  Avenue  to  Fifty-ninth  Street; 
then  he  persuaded  her  to  go  into  the  park. 


Henry  Vane.  97 

She  fascinated  him  that  afternoon.  There 
was  something  peculiarly  feminine  about  Miss 
Thomas.  Although  her  hair  was  black,  it  was 
not  coarse  and  lustrous,  but  very  fine  and  soft, 
dead  black  in  color.  A  soft,  creamy  dress 
hung  lovingly  about  her  figure.  She  talked 
much  about  herself  in  a  sisterly  sort  of  way. 
Vane  felt  a  desire  to  protect  her.  She  had  a 
gentle  way  of  yielding,  of  trusting  to  him,  of 
allowing  him  to  persuade  her  to  continue  the 
walk.  They  sat  down  a  moment  on  a  wooden 
bench  among  some  seringa-bushes;  above 
them  were  the  branches  of  an  oak  just  leafing 
out,  swaying  in  the  wind  and  casting  changing 
flecks  of  light  and  shade  upon  the  gravel  path 
and  the  folds  of  her  gown.  There  were  soft 
lights  in  her  face,  and  her  eyes  were  like  two 
blue  gentians. 

"Miss  Thomas,  I  have  a  question  to  ask 
you,"  began  Vane,  suddenly.  "  You  will  prom- 
ise not  to  be  offended?" 

"Yes,"    said  she  innocently,  opening    her 

eyes  wider. 
7 


98  Henry  Vane. 

"Are  you  engaged  to  be  married? " 
"  No,"  said  she  almost  instantly,  as  if  with- 
out reflecting.     Then  she  blushed  violently, 
and  silently  rose  to  go  home. 


XII. 

VANE  wished  himself  at  the  bottom  of  the 
lake,  if  that  ornamental  piece  of  water 
were  deep,  enough  to  drown.  It  seemed  like 
one  of  those  foolish  things  one  does  in  a  night- 
mare, without  being  able  to  prevent  it.  Now 
first  he  saw  how  impossible  it  was  to  go  on 
and  talk  to  her — to  preach  a  sermon  to  her — 
as  he  had  thought  he  intended.  It  would  mor- 
tally offend  her  if  she  were  not  mortally  of- 
fended already.  What  right  had  he  to  criticise 
her  conduct,  particularly  when  criticism  would 
certainly  imply  disapproval  ?  With  all  his  re- 
proach came  a  glow  of  satisfaction.  She  was 
certainly  not  in  love  with  any  one,  she  had  an- 
swered so  instantly.  Then  with  this  thought 
came  the  sting  again  that  he  had  wounded 
her. 

"I — I  saw  you  at  the  theatre   the  other 
night." 


100  Henry  Vane. 

Miss  Thomas  remained  silent. 

"  Were  you  not  at  the  theatre  with  Mr.  Ten 
Eyck  ?  "  persisted  Vane. 

"  I  was  at  the  theatre  with  my  brother,"  re- 
plied Miss  Thomas,  icily.  "  Mr.  Ten  Eyck  sat 
in  his  seat  for  a  few  moments,  I  believe.  Will 
you  stop  that  car,  if  you  please,  it  is  getting  so 
late." 

Vane  did  so  with  an  ill  grace.  He  had 
counted  on  the  walk  home  to  alter  her  impres- 
sions, and  now  this  opportunity  was  lost. 
They  took  seats  and  sat  for  several  blocks  in 
silence.  Vane  looked  at  her  covertly,  and  saw 
that  the  flush  of  indignation  had  given  place 
to  pallor,  and  that  she  looked  grieved.  He 
could  have  wrung  his  own  neck. 

Coming  finally  to  her  door,  he  felt  that  he 
must  say  something.  He  stood  a  moment  on 
the  stoop.  Then,  "  Miss  Thomas,  please  forgive 
me,"  he  said  gravely.  She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Are  you  offended?"  he  added,  for  the  sake 
of  something  to  say.  "  Pray  forgive  me.  I 
had  a  reason  for  asking,  and  an  excuse." 


Senry  Vane.  101 

"  I  might  forgive  you,"  she  said,  with  her 
hand  on  the  door,  "but  it  would  have  been 
better  for  you  not  to  have  said  it."  She 
opened  the  door  and  went  into  the  house, 
leaving  Vane  on  the  threshold  with  a  distinct 
impression  that  she  was  going  to  cry. 

He  walked  along,  mechanically,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  rooms,  feeling  his  cheeks  burn. 
That  he  had  bungled — that  he  had  committed 
a  social  gaucherie,  he  knew  well  enough ;  but 
what  troubled  him  more  than  this  was  that 
he  had  given  her  real  cause  for  offence,  he  had 
hurt  her.  If  she  could  only  know  what  pain 
this  thought  brought  to  him!  Fool  that  he 
was,  he  had  worn  his  clumsy,  jejune  mask  of 
cynicism,  and  had  not  once  shown  to  her  his 
truer  self.  He  was  more  at  fault  than  the 
world  was ;  and  she  was  not  of  the  world,  and 
he  had  blamed  her  for  it. 

He  stopped  on  the  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue 
and  Thirty-third  Street,  half-way  down  the 
hill,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  nearly 
six.  He  did  not  wish  to  go  back  to  his  rooms ; 


102  Henry  Vane. 

he  had  no  engagement  that  evening.  As  he 
stood  irresolute,  he  took  off  his  hat  to  Mrs. 
Gower,  who  passed  by  in  her  carriage.  Then 
he  resolved  to  go  down  to  his  office  and  work 
that  evening,  as  was  his  habit  when  he  wished 
to  banish  from  his  mind  a  too  persistent 
thought.  He  walked  back  through  the  cross- 
street,  to  get  the  railway  on  Sixth  Avenue, 
and  still  thinking  how  Miss  Thomas  was 
probably  crying  over  his  rudeness,  locked  in 
her  own  room.  How  could  he  have  done  it ! 
As  he  approached  her  house,  he  felt  almost 
tempted  to  go  in  again;  but  the  front  door 
opened  slowly,  and,  after  a  momentary  pause, 
he  saw  Ten  Eyck  come  out,  walk  down  the 
steps  and  rapidly  away.  Vane  grew  very 
angry  with  himself  and  her;  until  he  re- 
flected that  she  could  not  possibly  have 
known  that  Ten  Eyck  was  coming  that  after- 
noon. And,  indeed,  he  probably  had  not  been 
let  in. 

None    the    less    did  Vane   work    savagely 
through  the  evening,  taking  a  lonely  dinner  at 


Henry  Fane.  103 

the  "down-town"  Delmonico's.  At  about  mid- 
night he  left  his  office  and  walked  all  the  way 
up  to  his  room,  smoking,  and  thinking  what 
he  could  do  to  win  Miss  Thomas's  forgiveness. 
The  gas  was  burning  low  in  his  study,  and  he 
saw  a  square  white  packet  among  the  letters 
lying  on  his  table.  He  felt  that  shuddering 
weakness  in  the  loins,  as  if  all  within  were 
turned  to  water,  which  he  had  learned  to  rec- 
ognize as  the  work  of  that  first  apprehension 
of  a  serious  misfortune  which  comes  a  moment 
before  the  mind  has  fully  grasped  it.  He  sank 
upon  the  sofa  with  a  long  breath,  and  looked 
at  the  letter  silently  for  several  minutes.  It 
was  a  neat  note,  beautifully  sealed  and  deli- 
cately addressed ;  like  all  her  notes,  bearing  no 
evidence  of  a  servant's  dirty  pocket.  He 
opened  it,  fearing  to  find  in  it  the  lace  hand- 
kerchief without  a  word  ;  but  no,  there  was  a 
note  with  it : 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  VANE — 

"  I  send  you  back    your   handkerchief.      It  is  still  a 
little  burned  ;  but  perhaps  you  can  make  some  use  of  it. 


104.  Henry  Vane. 

I  ought  to  have  returned  it  sooner,  but  was  having  it 
mended. 

"Sincerely  yours, 

"  WINIFRED  THOMAS." 

So !  thought  Vane  ;  it  was  all  over  now.   He 
had  bungled  it  shamefully. 


XIII. 

HE  went  to  sleep  as  soon  as  lie  could — 
which  was  not  very  soon ;  and  woke  up, 
with  a  sob,  from  a  dream  in  which  they  were 
both  very  miserable.  It  was  an  hour  earlier 
than  his  usual  time  for  rising,  and,  as  he  went 
into  the  park,  the  birds  were  singing  quite  as 
they  might  have  sung  in  the  country. 

On  considering  her  note  critically,  he  did 
not  think  it  so  hopeless  as  it  had  seemed  in 
the  night.  And  again  he  repaired  to  his  office. 
Business  was  very  good  at  this  time,  and  Vane 
was  rapidly  becoming  rich. 

He  waited  many  days  for  a  chance  to  speak 
to  her ;  and  finally  the  chance  arrived,  at  an 
evening  party.  Curiously  enough,  he  was 
more  afraid  of  her  in  a  simple  morning  frock, 
worn  in  her  own  house,  with  the  little  edging 
of  white  lace  around  the  throat,  than  in  even- 
ing dress,  in  all  the  splendor  of  her  woman's 


106  Henry  Vane. 

beauty.  He  did  not  like  her  so  well  with  bare 
neck,  and  bare"  arms,  and  a  sweeping  cloud  of 
white  about  her,  and  white  satin  slippers.  She 
was  more  like  the  other  women  one  could 
meet  in  the  world.  She  looked  at  him  coldly  ; 
but  none  the  less  did  he  determine  to  speak  to 
her.  Her  partner  left  her  at  once ;  and  Vane 
led  her  into  the  embrasure  of  a  window. 

"  I  want  you  to  forgive  me  my  question  of 
the  other  afternoon." 

Miss  Thomas  made  no  answer. 

"  You  would,  if  you  knew  my  excuse." 

"  I  don't  see  what  possible  excuse  there  can 
be,"  she  said,  gravely. 

"  There  is  one — and  the  best  of  all  excuses," 
he  added,  in  a  lower  tone. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  Are  you  sure  ? "  said  Yane,  with  a  low 
laugh. 

She  met  his  eyes,  calmly,  for  an  appreciable 
duration  of  time.  "  I  wish  you  would  tell  me 
what  it  is,"  she  went  on  seriously. 

"  Some  time,  perhaps,  I  will." 


Henry  Vane.  107 

"Why  not  now?" 

Vane  shook  his  head.  "I  will  tell  you 
when  you  take  back  the  handkerchief." 

"I  shall  never  take  back  the  handker- 
chief." 

"  You  do  not  know  how  persistent  I  am.  I 
shall  ask  you  every  week  until  you  do." 

Miss  Thomas  slightly  moved  her  shoulders. 
He  could  have  fallen  at  her  feet  then  and 
there.  It  was  dark  behind  the  curtain,  all 
except  her  eyes,  and  she  looked  at  him  almost 
tenderly,  and  made  no  effort  to  end  the  con- 
versation. Vane  felt  that  he  was  very  deeply 
in  love  with  her. 

"Do  you  really  wish  to  know  the  reason 
why  I  asked  you  that  question?  he  said, 
hastily.  "  Do  you  ask  me  now  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  ask  you  some  time,"  she 
said,  dropping  her  eyes. 

Vane  bit  his  lip,  and  clenched  his  fingers, 
which  had  been  dangerously  near  hers.  At 
first  he  did  not  know  what  to  reply. 

"  As  for  the  handkerchief,  you  shall  surely 


108  Henry  Vane. 

take  it  some  time.  I  will  give  it  to  you  when 
you  are  married." 

She  blushed  deeply.  "Thank  you,"  she 
said,  "  I  would  rather  have  a  new  one,  then. 
But  it  is  time  for  me  to  go  home — or — I  think 
I  should  like  an  ice  first.  Will  you  get  me 
one?" 

When  Vane  returned,  two  or  three  men 
were  about  her.  She  took  the  ice,  but,  after 
tasting  it,  put  it  aside  indifferently.  "  I  really 
think  I  must  be  going  now,  "  she  said,  giving 
her  arm  to  one  of  her  companions. 

Vane  was  determined  not  to  be  outdone,  so 
he  went  to  find  her  carriage,  and  had  the 
pleasure  of  shutting  the  door  himself;  the 
two  other  men  standing  by.  "  Good  night," 
said  he,  in  a  low  tone.  She  made  no  reply 
until  he  had  got  back  to  the  sidewalk ;  then, 
"  Good  night,  every  one ! "  she  called  out  as 
the  horses  sprang  away,  restive  with  the  cold. 
Vane  went  back  to  the  supper-room  to  get 
a  glass  of  champagne,  and  then  walked  home. 

After  this,  he  decided  to  leave  the  course  of 


Henry  Vane.  109 

events  with  her.  He  had  surely  told  her,  as 
plainly  as  a  man  could  tell  a  woman,  that  he 
loved  her.  He  had  also  told  her  that  he  would 
ask  her  to  marry  him  whenever  she  wished — 
whenever  she  would  forgive  him  a  rude  ques- 
tion for  which  his  love  was  the  best  possible 
excuse.  So  two  months  passed  without  his 
speaking  to  her  seriously.  But  he  felt  well 
assured  that  he  loved  her. 


XIV. 

ONE  day  in  June,  Vane  sat  in  his  office 
with  two  notes  open  on  the  desk  before 
him.  One  was  from  Mrs.  Levison  Gower,  in- 
viting him  to  make  one  of  a  moonlight  picnic 
party.  They  were  to  be  conveyed  up  the 
Hudson  in  Mr.  Gower's  steam-launch,  land 
just  above  Yonkers,  take  possession  of  a  grove, 
and  have  dinner  there  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  they  might  dine  with  much  more  conveni- 
ence and  propriety  on  the  deck  of  the  yacht. 
The  other  note  before  Vane  was  from  Dr. 
Kerouec,  in  Brittany,  announcing  a  serious 
change  in  the  condition  of  his  mother. 

He  had  already  decided  to  take  the  next 
steamer  for  Havre.  He  had  been  making  his 
preparations  all  the  day ;  but  for  some  reason 
had  postponed  answering  Mrs.  Gower's  note. 
And  now  he  was  face  to  face  with  a  strong  de- 
sire to  see  Miss  Thomas  once  more  before  he 


Henry  Vane.  Ill 

went  away.  And,  after  all,  why  should  he  not 
go?  His  mother  had  been  ill  for  so  many 
years,  and  he  felt  that  she  would  still  be  ill 
for  so  many  years  more ;  and  Mrs.  Gower's 
party  was  to  be  the  day  before  the  departure 
of  his  steamer.  He  knew  that  Miss  Thomas 
would  be  there.  He  had  quite  decided  not  to 
call  at  her  house  again;  he  had  not  called 
there  for  the  last  two  months ;  but  he  longed 
for  a  glimpse  of  her  face  to  take  away  with 
him.  It  might,  be  so  long  before  he  came 
back,  and  so  many  things  might  happen  while 
he  was  gone. 

Miss  Thomas  was  the  first  person  Vane 
saw,  standing  by  the  entrance,  as  he  went  on 
board  the  yacht.  She  was  evidently  looking 
for  some  one  ;  but  when  she  saw  Vane,  she 
turned  away.  Vane  kept  up  a  rapid  conversa- 
tion with  his  hostess  until  a  lady  arrived 
whom  he  knew,  when  he  walked  with  her  to  the 
other  side  of  the  yacht.  Meantime  he  could 
see  that  Miss  Thomas  was  covertly  watching 
his  movements,  and  talking  with  no  one.  Her 


112  Henry  Vane. 

eyes  seemed  to  follow  him  wherever  he  went ; 
but  he  was  careful  not  to  get  within  speaking 
distance. 

After  many  delays,  caused  by  languid  guests, 
late  hampers,  and  the  vacillations  of  Mrs. 
Gower  herself,  the  little  steamer  cast  off  and 
proceeded  up  the  river.  Mrs.  Gower  took 
command  in  the  yacht,  extending  her  jurisdic- 
tion, as  Vane  observed,  quite  to  the  limit  of 
the  pilot's  politeness.  At  first,  owing  to  the 
smells  of  the  manufacturing  establishments 
which  lined  the  river,  and  divers  distasteful 
sights  about  the  wharves,  but  little  attention 
was  paid  to  the  scenery ;  but  when  the  city 
was  left  behind,  and  the  western  shore  grew 
bolder,  Nature  was  rewarded  with  all  the  ad- 
jectives of  feminine  enthusiasm.  Vane  heard 
less  of  this,  however,  as  conversation  grew 
more  general.  When  due  appreciation  of  the 
Hudson's  beauties  had  been  shown,  the  com- 
pany broke  up  into  groups  of  two  or  three 
camp-stools,  and  every  little  clump  fell  to  dis- 
cussing its  neighbors.  Here  and  there  was  a 


Henry  Vane.  113 

group  of  two — a  male  and  female — oblivious 
of  neighbors  and  discussing  each  other.  The 
Palisades  looked  on  in  silence.  It  seemed  to 
Vane  that  the  occasion  was  only  saved 
from  insignificance  by  the  presence  of  Miss 
Thomas. 

When  they  touched  shore  at  the  grove  ap- 
pointed for  the  picnic,  most  of  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  eager  to  land  as  if  it  had  been  an 
ocean  voyage,  crowded  to  the  gangway.  Mrs. 
Gower  felt  it  her  duty  to  show  the  way,  and 
skilfully  forced  a  passage  through  her  guests 
Vane,  who  was  at  that  moment  busied  with 
the  duty  of  protecting  her,  following  in  her 
wake.  Her  rapid  motion  caused  a  sort  of  eddy 
in  which  Vane  moved  behind  her  without 
much  effort;  so  that,  looking  about  him,  he 
saw  Miss  Thomas  beside  him.  Her  companion 
was  a  young  man  with  an  eye-glass,  looking 
like  a  student  in  college,  the  consciousness  of 
his  own  merits  continually  at  war  with  the 
world's  estimate  of  them ;  so  that  the  unceas- 
ing struggle  of  a  proper  self-assertion  left  him 
8 


114  Henry  Vane. 

little  breath  for  words.  In  one  of  the  pauses 
of  his  conversation,  Miss  Thomas  turned  rap- 
idly to  Vane. 

"Are  you  never  going  to  speak  to  me 
again  ?  " 

"  Have  you  forgiven  me  yet  ?  " 

This  little  interchange  of  questions  was  so 
quick  that  it  hardly  could  have  been  noticed 
by  any  one.  Miss  Thomas  turned  back  to  her 
companion  before  he  had  even  time  to  miss 
her  attention ;  and  indeed  his  mind  was  fully 
occupied  in  grappling  for  his  next  remark ; 
while  Vane  was  incontinently  swept  over  the 
gang-plank  in  the  vortex  of  Mrs.  Gower. 

She  certainly  looked  very  pretty  that  day, 
thought  Vane,  as  he  walked  up  the  hill  with 
the  latter  lady  ;  but  he  was  sure  now  that  he 
had  no  mind  to  be  refused  by  her.  Better 
even  the  present  than  that.  She  had  on  an- 
other soft,  clinging  dress,  of  ivory  white,  which 
only  lent  an  added  charm  to  her  skin  of  whiter 
ivory,  the  dead  black  hair,  and  those  wonder- 
ful violet — "  Ah — oh,  yes,"  said  Vane  to  Mrs. 


Henry  Vane.  115 

Gower;  and  then,  seeing  this  lady  laugh, 
"  Yes,  very  funny — hah !  " 

"I  was  telling  you  of  Mrs.  Grayling's  sad 
experience  in  Rome,"  said  Mrs.  Gower,  de- 
murely ;  "  but  I  fear  you  were  not  thinking  of 
her." 

Vane  vowed  to  keep  a  tighter  rein  on  his 
thoughts  thereafter ;  and  they  came  to  a  little 
glade  in  the  wood,  where  the  servants  were 
laying  table-cloths  on  the  turf.  The  dinner 
was  very  gay.  Some  ladies  screamed  when 
a  daddy-longlegs  ran  into  the  lobster  salad, 
but  an  occasional  pine-needle,  falling  into  a 
glass  of  champagne,  seemed  but  to  add  to  its 
flavor.  It  was  considered  de  rigueur  to  sit 
upon  the  grass ;  but  most  of  the  men  found 
it  very  awkward  to  assume  attitudes  of  any 
decorative  value,  and  the  college  student  in 
particular  was  heard  to  wonder  audibly  how 
the  deuce  the  Romans  did  it.  After  the  feast, 
the  company  divided  itself  into  couples  and 
scattered  in  the  woods.  Miss  Thomas  did  not 
leave  the  table ;  and  Mrs.  Gower  felt  obliged 


116  Henry  Vane. 

to  wait  for  the  last.  Wemyss  stayed  with  her. 
As  Vane  passed  behind  Miss  Thomas,  she 
called  him  to  her. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you  to-day." 

"Will  not  some  other  time  do?"  said 
Vane,  "I  am  getting  a  glass  of  wine  for  Mrs. 
Gower."  The  girl  looked  at  him,  but  did  not 
seem  to  take  offence. 

"  I  may  never  tell  you,  if  I  do  not  tell  you 
to-day,"  she  answered,  seriously,  in  a  low 
voice.  Vane  looked  at  her  surprised  ;  she 
bore  his  gaze  for  half  a  second,  and  then  let 
her  own  eyes  drop.  The  student  was  looking 
on  with  parted  lips.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Bronson,"  said 
she,  immediately,  "  I  wish  you  would  get  me  a 
glass  of  champagne — and  seltzer,  too  ! "  She 
said  the  "  too  "  with  an  inflection  that  made  it 
sound  like  do. 

The  youth  departed  on  his  errand;  and 
Vane  also  left,  saying  that  he  would  be  back  in 
a  moment ;  but  he  was  saved  a  double  journey 
by  observing  that  some  one  else  had  brought 
Mrs.  Gower  her  wine  and  had  taken  his  seat 


Henry  Vane.  117 

beside  her.  Vane  returned  to  Miss  Thomas, 
passing  rapidly  over  in  his  mind  what  had 
happened  in  the  four  months  since  he  had 
asked  her  that  fatal  question,  and  trying  to 
decide  upon  a  course  of  action  for  himself. 
She  had  made  no  effort  to  have  him  speak  to 
her  before  to-day.  But  by  her  presence  the 
pic-nic  was  quite  saved  from  insignificance. 

"  I  have  come  back,  Miss  Thomas,"  he  said, 
seriously.  "  What  can  you  have  to  tell  me  ?  " 

Miss  Thomas  looked  at  the  tent,  before 
which  Bronson  was  standing — waiting  for  her 
seltzer.  Most  of  the  guests  had  left  the  place, 
and  the  servants  were  clearing  away  the  din- 
ner. The  moon  was  just  rising. 

"Will  you  not  come  for  a  walk?"  said  Vane. 
Miss  Thomas  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he 
helped  her  to  her  feet.  "  I  am  forgetting  your 
wine,"  he  said,  afterwards.  He  was  ill  at  ease 
and  nervous. 

"  You  know  that  I  never  drink  wine  at  par- 
ties," she  answered ;  and  just  as  Bronson  came 
back  to  the  place  where  she  had  been  sitting, 


118  Henry  Vane. 

they  disappeared  in  the  forest.  Bronson  had 
a  long  neck  supported  by  a  very  stiff  standing 
collar,  and  when  his  dignity  was  compromised 
he  had  a  way  of  throwing  back  his  head  and 
resting  his  chin  upon  the  points  of  his  collar. 
He  did  this  now,  and  the  Adam's  apple  in  his 
throat  worked  prominently.  Then,  after  look- 
ing gravely  a  moment  at  the  seat  which  had 
been  Miss  Thomas's,  as  if  to  be  satisfied  that 
she  had  really  gone,  he  drank  the  champagne 
himself  and  went  back  to  the  tent,  where  he 
found  a  male  acquaintance,  to  whom  he  pro- 
posed a  smoke.  "  It  is  such  a  relief  to  get 
away  for  a  minute  from  the  women,"  he  mur- 
mured, as  he  threw  himself  on  the  grass  and 
rolled  a  cigarette.  "  By  the  way,  did  you  see 
that  little  girl  I  was  with  ?  Nice  dress,  you 
know — quiet  little  thing.  Well,  by  gad,  sir,  I 
believe  there's  something  up  between  her  and 
that  fellow  Vane." 


XV. 

AFTER  they  left  the  place  of  the  dinner, 
Miss  Thomas  walked  on  for  some  time  in 
silence,  and  Vane  had  inwardly  resolved  not  to 
be  the  first  to  break  their  peace  of  mind.  The 
woods,  being  part  of  a  private  estate,  had  re- 
ceived some  care.  There  was  no  underbrush, 
and  they  were  walking  in  a  well-kept  path. 
The  moon  was  now  high  enough  to  make  a 
play  of  light  among  the  leafage  and  to  outline 
with  a  silver  tracery  the  smooth  twigs  and 
trunks  of  the  trees  before  them. 

Vane  was  silently  wondering  what  Miss 
Thomas  could  mean.  He  became  strangely 
self-possessed  and  cautious,  and  it  occurred  to 
him  that  this  was  the  sort  of  clear-sightedness 
a  man  would  have  who  was  gambling  and  play- 
ing for  a  very  large  amount.  He  thought  to 
himself  that  this  was  just  the  way  fellows  usu- 
ally got  married.  Vane  had  been  brought  up  to 


120  Henry  Vane. 

suppose  that  the  proper  way  to  reach  a  young 
lady's  heart,  or  at  least  her  hand,  was  through 
the  judgment  of  her  parents;  but,  somehow, 
this  did  not  seem  to  be  necessary  in  New 
York,  certainly  not  with  Miss  Thomas ;  and  he 
felt  that  there  was  a  danger  of  his  asking  Miss 
Thomas,  to-night,  to  become  Mrs.  Vane.  And, 
after  all,  he  felt  to-night  that  it  was  by  no 
means  certain  that  he  wished  Mrs.  Vane  to 
have  been  Miss  Baby  Thomas. 

The  long  silence  became  embarrassing,  but 
Vane  did  not  quite  know  what  to  say,  and 
Miss  Thomas  had  apparently  no  desire  to  say 
anything.  The  path  they  were  in  led  up  to  a 
low  stone  wall  in  a  sort  of  clearing  on  the  side 
of  the  hill,  with  a  distant  view  of  the  Hudson. 
Vane  assisted  Miss  Thomas  over  the  wall,  and 
then,  getting  over  it  himself,  sat  down  upon  it. 
The  girl  sat  down  beside  him.  Both  looked  at 
the  river. 

"What  did  you  have  to  say  to  me?"  said 
Vane,  at  last. 

"I  wished  to  tell  you  that  I  had  forgiven 


Henry  Vane.  121 

your  question,"  Miss  Thomas  answered  in  a 
low,  quiet  voice,  looking  away  from  him  across 
the  water. 

"Entirely?" 

"  Entirely,  from  the  heart." 

Vane  certainly  did  have  a  thrill  of  pleasur- 
able excitement  at  this  speech.  It  was  the 
sort  of  glow,  the  tingling  feeling  about  the 
waist  he  had  felt  when  about  to  mount  a 
strange  horse  whose  temper  he  had  not  tested. 
He  looked  at  the  girl.  She  was  half  sitting, 
half  leaning,  against  the  wall.  Her  flowing 
dress  had  caught  the  sheen  of  the  moon,  and 
the  white  figure  shone  brightly  against  the 
dark  leaves.  She  might  have  been  a  naiad  or 
a  wood-nymph,  and  yet  there  was  a  subtle 
feminine  presence  about  her.  With  some  girls 
you  can  associate  on  terms  of  fellowship,  make 
companions  of  them,  perhaps  even  sit  on  the 
fence  in  the  moonlight  and  talk  to  them  ami- 
cably, as  to  another  man.  But  you  could 
never  forget  that  Miss  Thomas  was  a  woman. 

"I  was  really  very  much  hurt,"  she  said, 


122  Henry  Vane. 

"  and  I  think  you  ought  to  have  begged  my 
pardon." 

"  I  did,"  said  Vane,  "  and  I  told  you  I  had 
the  best  possible  excuse." 

"But  you  never  told  me  what  the  excuse 
was."  The  young  man  sat  on  a  lower  stone 
than  hers,  and,  as  he  looked  up  to  her,  the  ra- 
diance fell  full  upon  her  face,  and  he  saw  the 
moon  reflected  in  her  eyes. 

Why  should  he  doubt  this  girl?  Had  he 
not  been  deeply  in  love  with  her  ?  And,  after 
all,  had  she  not  borne  herself,  in  all  their  re- 
lations, as  he  would  have  wished  her  to,  as  he 
would  have  wished  her  to  be,  supposing  that 
she  cared  for  him  ?  She  had  often  been  right 
in  being  offended  with  him,  but  she  was  too 
gentle  to  be  long  angry — she  was  lovely  in  for- 
giving. Had  he  not  plainly  let  her  know  what 
should  be  the  signal  for  him  to  declare  his 
love?  Was  not  this  as  much  encouragement 
as  any  woman  would  give  ?  Strangely  enough, 
now  that  he  was  sure  of  her  he  almost  doubted 
of  himself. 


Henry  Vane.  123 

"Do  you  really  ask  me  to  tell  you  of  my 
excuse  ? "  said  Vane,  and  he  felt  a  little 
ashamed  of  himself  for  the  prevaricating  ques- 
tion. "  Do  you  not  know  ?  " 

Miss  Thomas  said  nothing,  but  made  a  slight 
motion  of  her  dress.  Vane  bit  his  lip,  and  felt 
that  this  was  cowardly.  The  moon  had  gone 
into  a  cloud,  but  he  fancied,  from  the  position 
of  her  head,  that  she  was  looking  at  him  with 
her  large  eyes.  Her  dress  seemed  to  have  a 
light  of  its  own,  which  made  her  form  still 
visible  in  the  darkness.  Suddenly  he  pictured 
to  himself  the  way  his  conduct  would  look  to 
her  if  she  really  cared  for  him,  and  he  felt 
sure  that  she  did,  and  he  knew  that  she  at- 
tracted him  more  than  any  woman  he  had  ever 
met. 

"  Because  I  love  you,  Winifred,"  said  Vane, 
and  he  laid  his  hand  on  hers. 

"  Oh — h,"  sighed  the  girl  with  a  sort  of 
shudder,  as  if  he  had  given  her  pain,  "  I  am  so 
sorry."  Vane  caught  his  breath.  "  Oh,  I  am 
so  sorry ! "  Vane  pressed  her  little  hand  con- 


124  Henry  Vane. 

vulsively.  "  Oh,  I  never  thought  it  was  this. 
Why  did  you  tell  me  ?  Why  did  you  not  leave 
it  unsaid?  Now  I  shall  lose  you  for  always." 
Her  voice  broke  in  a  sob. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  will  not  marry  me  ? 
Do  you  mean  that  you  do  not  love  me  ?  You 
must  know  how  I  have  loved  you."  Vane  cov- 
ered her  hand  with  kisses.  Miss  Thomas 
seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  this,  but  went  on 
in  a  sort  of  cry,  asking  him  to  forgive  her. 
"  Do  you  mean  that  there  is  no  hope  ?  "  said 
he,  gravely. 

"  Oh,  no !  none.  You  know  how  much  I  like 
you,  but  I  can  never  marry  you.  You  will  for- 
get all  this,  will  you  not?  "  There  was  a  long 
silence  between  them,  but  her  hand  still  lay  in 
his.  Meantime  the  sky  had  grown  black  in 
front  of  them.  Vane  was  straining  his  eyes  to 
see  her  face.  There  was  a  flash  of  lightning, 
and  he  saw  that  her  cheek  was  wet  with  tears. 
Some  large  drops  of  rain  came  pattering  down 
among  the  leaves. 

"We   must  hurry  back,"   said  Vane    sud- 


Henry  Vane.  125 

denly,  dropping  her  hand.  She  rose  silently 
and  followed  him  along  the  path.  In  a  few 
moments  they  got  back  to  the  place  of  supper. 
They  were  the  first  to  arrive,  but  in  a  moment 
they  heard  voices  in  the  shrubbery. 

"You  will  try  and  forget  this  evening,  will 
you  not  ? "  said  Miss  Thomas,  hurriedly. 
"Try  and  be  as  if  it  had  never  happened. 
And  oh,  tell  me,  are  you  very  unhappy  ?  " 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  he,  "but  I  am 
going  to-morrow  to  France."  Miss  Thomas 
made  a  movement  of  surprise,  but  there  was 
no  time  for  more  to  be  said,  as  the  thunder- 
storm was  really  upon  them,  and  every  one  was 
hastening  to  the  river.  On  the  boat  Vane 
found  Miss  Thomas  a  seat,  and  then  went 
alone  to  the  bow.  He  was  very  unhappy.  He 
had  not  fancied  that  he  would  be  so  unhappy. 
He  was  very  much  disappointed,  and,  perhaps, 
a  little  angry.  Coming  up  from  the  wharf  in 
New  York  he  was,  as  a  matter  of  course,  put  in 
the  same  carriage  with  Miss  Thomas.  There 
were  two  other  people  with  them,  and  Vane 


126  Henry  Vane. 

endeavored  to  act  light  comedy,  but  was  not 
well  seconded  by  the  girl  herself,  who  was  si- 
lent and  very  pale.  They  went  to  Mrs.  Gow- 
er's  house  for  supper,  but  all  the  women  were 
wet,  and  most  of  the  men  ill-tempered,  and  the 
party  broke  up  early.  Vane  took  his  leave  at 
once,  and  went  back  to  his  lodgings  to  finish 
his  packing  for  the  voyage.  As  soon  as  he 
had  done  he  went  immediately  to  bed  and  fell 
asleep  late  in  the  night,  having  as  a  latest 
waking  thought  the  consciousness  that  he  had 
for  many  months  been  making  a  fool  of  him- 
self. 


XVI. 

was  still  the  most  marked  flavor  in 
J-  his  self-consciousness  the  next  morning, 
and  when  he  rode  to  the  wharf,  when  he  en- 
tered the  cabin  decked  with  flowers  as  if  for  a 
funeral,  even  when  they  steamed  out  to  sea, 
the  bitter  aftertaste  of  folly  did  not  leave  him. 
He  was  in  the  mid-Atlantic  before  his  self- 
communings  began  to  be  mitigated  by  his 
sense  of  humor.  Truly  there  had  been  no 
need  to  consider  quite  so  nicely  his  duties  to 
Miss  Thomas.  He  had  thought  himself  too 
far  involved  to  retreat  gracefully  without  a 
proposal.  He  had  felt  compelled  to  precipi- 
tate matters.  He  had  feared  to  wound  her 
deeply  otherwise,  though  conscious,  at  the 
time,  that  his  offer  was  rather  magnanimous 
than  passionate.  He  had  had  a  continual  fear 
of  compromising  her,  too  old-fashioned  a  reve- 
rence for  woman,  too  European  a  sense  of 


128  Henry  Vane. 

honor.  He  had  done  her  too  much  honor. 
Apparently  she  had  not  considered  him  in  so 
serious  a  light,  this  American. 

That  he  had  been  a  most  unconscionable  ass 
Yane  knew  very  well.  This  conviction,  how- 
ever, is  a  sentiment  we  can  easily  bear  while  it 
is  unshared  by  others,  and,  fortunately,  none 
of  Vane's  friends  were  so  clearly  convinced  of 
it.  None  of  his  friends  knew  much  about  this 
affair. 

After  all,  he  had  almost  given  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief when  the  welcome  words  of  freedom  came 
to  her  lips.  He  was  well  out  of  it.  It  had 
been  a  very  sharp  little  skirmish,  and  he  was 
not  sorry  that  he  had  escaped  in  good  order, 
heart  and  honor  whole.  At  this  point  Vane 
again  appeared  to  himself  as  an  ass,  but  he 
only  smiled  at  the  apparition.  Fortunate  af- 
fairs those,  which  vanish  with  a  laugh !  So 
he  dismissed  the  matter  from  his  mind. 

When  Vane  landed  at  Havre  the  whole  thing 
seemed  like  a  dream.  There  was  the  familiar 
chalk  cliff  and  the  wide  estuary,  and  the 


Henry  Vane.  129 

people  seated  on  little,  iron,  painted  chairs,  in 
the  cafes,  reading  Figaro,  just  as  he  had  left 
them,  with  nothing  changed  but  the  date  in 
the  newspaper.  A  certain  flippancy  lurks  in 
the  sky  of  France,  or  was  the  flippancy  Id-bas 
in  America  ?  Vane  was  not  quite  sure. 

He  had  had  no  letter  from  the  doctor  since 
that  first  one  received  in  New  York.  Indeed 
there  had  been  no  way  for  one  to  have  reached 
him  before  his  arrival  in  Havre,  and  he  was  not 
sure  that  the  doctor  knew  in  which  steamer 
he  was  crossing.  But  Vane  was  anxious  to  get 
to  Henries.  Instead  of  going  up  one  side  of 
the  river  and  down  the  other  by  rail,  he  de- 
cided to  make  a  cut  across  the  country,  so  he 
took  the  ferry  for  Trouville.  The  place  was 
full  of  people — people  such  as  you  find  any- 
where, people  such  as  you  might  see  in  New- 
port or  New  York — and  Vane  hastened  to 
leave  it.  He  found  a  diligence  driven  by  an 
old  man  in  a  blue  blouse,  that  took  the  country 
people  and  their  eggs  and  chickens  to  and  from 
the  market  at  Trouville,  and  retained  a  seat  on 


130  Henry  Vane. 

the  outside.  They  left  the  watering-place  at 
sunset,  and,  after  driving  a  few  miles  along  the 
beach — the  fashionable  drive — by  the  painted 
pavilions  and  villas,  they  struck  inland  through 
the  grass  uplands  still  fragrant  with  the  hay. 

I  do  not  want  to  make  anything  tragic  of 
Vane's  arrival  at  Rennes.  It  was  hardly  that 
to  him.  He  had  taken  the  midnight  mail  from 
Caen  after  a  six  hours'  journey  in  the  sweet 
July  evening ;  and  when  he  arrived  in  Rennes 
in  the  morning  his  mother  was  dead  and  had 
been  buried,  and  the  priests  in  the  great  ca- 
thedral, even  then,  were  saying  masses  for  her 
soul.  The  old  physician,  like  few  physicians, 
but  like  all  old  Bretons,  was  an  ardent  Catho- 
lic, and  hod  sought  to  secure  to  his  patient 
one  surreptitious  chance  of  salvation  before 
his  heretic  friend  arrived.  "  Yes,  my  son," 
said  he,  "  at  the  last  she  died,  tout  doucement,  it 
is  now  three  weeks.  She  never  recovered  her- 
self, though  I  had  the  abbe  with  her  and  the 
Presence  by  her  side.  She  never  knew  you  or 
me,  thou  dost  remember,  and  at  the  end  she 


Henry  Vane.  131 

died  silently,  and  spoke  not  at  all.  Ah !  mon 
pauvre  ami,  quelle  sainte  femme!"  cried  the 
doctor,  forgetting  that  he  had  never  known 
Mrs.  Vane  in  her  right  mind. 

The  masses,  thought  Vane,  would  do  no 
harm,  and  he  stayed  two  or  three  weeks  with 
Dr.  Kerouec  in  his  old  house  near  Rennes. 

The  doctor,  though  growing  old,  was  very 
busy.  He  had  numberless  charitable  meet- 
ings in  the  afternoons,  and  his  practice  took 
up  the  mornings.  His  evenings  were  usually 
passed  with  Vane  and  the  abbe  over  tric-trac 
and  boston.  The  doctor  was  the  head  of  many 
benevolent  clubs,  "Societes  de  Consomma- 
tion,"  and  such  like.  He  knew  to  a  unit  how 
many  poor  people  had  consumed  the  society's 
soup,  for  each  of  the  past  forty  years,  in 
Kennes,  and  seemed  to  derive  much  satisfac- 
tion from  these  figures  and  their  annual  in- 
crease. He  never  spoke  again  to  Vane  of  the 
young  lady  with  the  dot,  and  it  turned  out 
that  she  had  married  M.  le  Vicomte's  son. 

Meantime  Vane  wandered  through  the  rosy 


132  Henry  Vane. 

lanes,  and  the  country  came  to  him  with  a 
sense  of  rest.  Life's  silent  woods  are  so  near 
its  highways,  after  all !  And  Vane  had  been  a 
boy  in  this  country,  and  it  had  a  glamour  for 
him ;  and,  truly,  it  is  a  sweet  corner  in  the 
world.  He  had  gone  out  of  it  into  all  that  was 
great  and  new,  and  now  he  came  back  to  it, 
like  a  foot-worn  pilgrim,  with  nothing  but  his 
staff  and  scrip.  And  as  he  thought  this,  he 
was  passing  a  great  army  of  the  peasantry,  not 
all  peasantry,  for  many  a  lady,  too,  was  walk- 
ing amid  the  wooden  shoes.  Before  the  long 
procession,  among  the  crucifixes,  was  carried 
the  ermine  banner  of  Queen  Anne.  It  was  the 
annual  pilgrimage  to  Lourdes.  He  looked  af- 
ter them  curiously,  so  earnestly  they  marched, 
chanting  their  simple  aves  and  their  litanies  to 
St.  Anne  of  Auray.  But  they  did  not  walk  to 
Gascony,  but  only  to  the  railway,  whence  they 
went  by  special  train. 

Vane  did  not  feel  deeply  his  mother's  death. 
Indeed  it  hardly  seemed  that  she  could  have 
died  so  lately;  it  was  rather  as  if  she  had 


Henry  Vane.  133 

been  dead  many  years.  All  the  old  seemed  to 
have  faded  away  out  of  his  life,  and  every- 
thing new  was  rather  unreal.  As  for  Baby 
Thomas,  she  was  either  forgotten  completely  or 
dismissed  with  a  slighting  half-memory.  The 
older  love  was  as  much  in  his  mind  and  its  ghost 
was  as  real  a  figure  as  this  memory  of  yester- 
day. He  walked  over  to  Monrepos  one  after- 
noon when  the  doctor  had  a  meeting  at  his 
house.  The  place  was  rented  by  an  English 
family,  and  some  stout  girls  were  playing  lawn 
tennis,  while  a  comely  youth,  lying  lazily  on 
the  grass,  looked  on  critically  over  a  short 
pipe.  Vane  sat  on  the  wait  and  began  to  poke 
pebbles  with  his  stick  again.  He  had  suc- 
ceeded ;  and  the  result  was  emptiness.  Why 
could  not  this  poor  sordid  success  have  come 
sooner, — and  his  father,  and  so  his  mother, 
might  have  been  alive  to-day. 


XVII. 

WHEN  he  got  home  (Dr.  Kerouec's  house 
he  called  home)  he  found  two  American 
letters.  One  was  a  business  letter,  but  on 
the  other  he  recognized  the  familiar  delicate 
angles  of  Miss  Thomas's  writing.  He  was  dis- 
pleased at  this.  The  note  was  like  some  petty 
daily  duty  busying  one  in  an  hour  of  insight — 
like  the  call  of  the  prompter  in  some  stupid 
play.  It  changed  all,  even  to  the  language  of 
his  thought.  What  the  deuce  can  she  have  to 
say  in  a  letter?  he  said  to  himself.  He 
thought  he  had  done  with  her. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  he 
opened  the  business  letter  first.  It  was  from 
his  partner,  who  was  growing  old  and  more 
and  more  reliant  on  Vane's  judgment,  and 
it  contained  an  offer  of  a  quarter  of  a  million 
from  Welsh  for  their  interest  in  the  Belle- 
fontaine  and  Pacific  Kailway.  Nearly  every 


Henry  Vane.  135 

village  in  the  Western  States  has  a  Pacific 
railway,  but  comparatively  few  have  reached 
the  Pacific.  Most  of  them  run  vaguely  in  a 
westerly  direction  for  a  hundred  miles  or  so, 
and  are  managed  by  an  agent  of  the  bond- 
holders. But  the  Bellefontaine  P.  B.  was  par- 
allel to  another  Pacific  road,  which  had  at  last 
been  put  on  a  successful  basis  by  Welsh,  the 
railroad  king ;  and  Welsh,  who  had  sold  all 
his  own  stock  in  the  successful  road,  of  which 
he  was  president,  and  who  had  further  agreed 
to  sell  considerably  more  stock  than  he  owned, 
was  now  desirous  of  finishing  the  Bellefontaine 
and  Pacific,  and  running  it  in  competition  with 
his  own  road.  Vane  wrote  a  telegram  advising 
his  partner  to  demand  half  a  million  for  their 
interest  in  the  Bellefontaine  Pacific ;  and  then 
he  opened  Miss  Thomas's  letter.  Cinerea  Lake, 
June  25,  187-,  it  was  dated.  Now,  where  and 
what,  thought  Vane,  is  Cinerea? 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Vane,"  it  ran  on,  "  I  think  of 
you  all  the  day,  and  often  cannot  sleep  at 
night.  What  can  you  think  of  me  ?  If  I  could 


136  Henry  Vane. 

•'  — — — — — — « 

only  see  you,  and  feel  that  you  would  under- 
stand me ;  how  unhappy  you  have  made  me 
by  what  you  told  me  the  other  evening!  I 
wish  now  that  I  had  not  told  you  of  my  for- 
giveness, although  I  had  fully  forgiven  you  in 
my  heart.  I  wish  I  had  not  spoken  it,  and  then 
our  friendship  would  not  have  been  broken.  I 
feel  now  that  you  cannot  think  of  me  as  your 
friend ;  that  you  believe  I  have  been  intention- 
ally cruel  and  unkind  to  you.  Why  did  you 
tell  me  ? 

"  I  may  be  doing  wrong,  wrong  again,  in  writ- 
ing to  you.  I  want  so  much  to  ask  you  to  come 
to  see  me — you  will  come,  won't  you  ?  when  you 
come  back  ? 

"W.  T.     Sunday  night." 

"  Pish !  "  said  Vane,  and  he  crumpled  up  the 
letter  in  his  pocket  and  went  to  walk,  in  the 
late  afternoon.  Returning,  the  doctor  passed 
him  in  a  carriage  with  footmen,  and  he  met 
him  on  the  threshold  of  his  house  with  an  in- 
vitation to  visit  at  Monrepos.  The  people  who 
had  taken  the  place  were  friends  of  the  Gres- 


Henry  Vane.  137 

hams,  and  had  known  Mrs.  Vane.  Of  course, 
Vane  could  not  go ;  but  the  question  gave  the 
needed  fillip  to  his  action.  He  must  do  some- 
thing ;  he  must  go  somewhere.  It  is  the  nature 
of  man  to  go  somewhere. 

So  Vane  went  to  many  places  that  summer. 
It  is  customary  in  romances  for  men  thus  wan- 
dering to  be  haunted  by  the  thought  of  some- 
thing. Vane  was  haunted  by  the  thought  of 
nothing.  He  did  not  even  think  of  Miss 
Thomas,  or,  if  he  thought  of  her,  it  was  to  think 
that  he  thought  nothing  of  her ;  it  is  nearly  the 
same  thing.  He  began  by  going  to  Biarritz 
and  Lourdes,  in  the  path  of  the  pilgrims.  At 
Lourdes  there  is  a  modern,  ugly  church  upon 
a  hill,  with  modern,  manufactured  glass  within ; 
the  grotto  is  underneath,  surrounded  always 
by  hundreds  of  pilgrims — many  bedridden, 
some  dying.  The  figure  of  the  Virgin  is  robed 
in  a  white  gown,  with  a  blue  silk  wrapper  and 
a  golden  crown.  You  may  buy  small  replicas 
of  it  in  the  shops.  Vane  was  duly  shocked,  as 
becomes  a  Protestant.  But  one  thing  he  liked 


138  Henry  Vane. 

in  Lourdes — an  expression  he  heard  used  by 
an  old  priest  in  defending  the  miracle.  It  was, 
he  said,  an  example  of  the  divine  foolishness 
of  the  ways  of  God — the  Virgin's  appearance 
to  a  simple  child.  Vane  fancied  that  there 
might  be  follies  that  had  something  in  them  of 
divine  and  much  good  sense  that  smacked  only 
of  the  world  and  the  flesh.  One  got  plenty  of 
good  sense  in  New  York. 

When  he  left  Lourdes  he  went  eastward, 
through  Gascony  and  Languedoc.  The  sweet 
contentment  of  the  harvest  was  over  the  coun- 
try, the  healthy  happiness  of  nature's  repro- 
duction, of  fruitage  and  of  growing  seed.  All 
earth  and  nature  is  happy  where  it  is  not  con- 
scious. There  was  a  mighty  harvest  that  year, 
and  all  the  people  of  the  country  were  busied 
with  it,  getting  themselves  their  daily  bread, 
delivered,  for  the  time,  from  evil. 

In  the  south  of  France  there  are  wide  plains 
and  cornfields,  and  in  them  is  more  than  one 
great  dead  city,  sleeping  like  some  old  warrior 
in  the  peaceful  afternoon  of  his  days.  The  huge 
armor  of  cyclopean  walls  has  served  its  time, 


Henry  Vane.  139 

but  still  stands  out,  frowning,  from  the  sea  of 
yellow  grain ;  the  city  inside  has  shrunk  within 
the  walls,  and  no  longer  fills  them.  Such  a  place 
is  Aigues  Mortes  or  Carcassonne ;  nestling  in 
the  arms  of  fortresses,  quiet  and  still,  as  if  pro- 
tected by  them  and  lulled  to  sleep.  Stern  in 
semblance  as  these  walls  may  be,  they  are 
pasteboard,  like  Don  Quixote's  helmet ;  they 
date  from  less  noisy  days  than  ours ;  the  mor- 
tarless  masonry  would  rattle  to  the  ground  at 
the  sound  of  cannon.  However,  they  have  been 
of  use  in  older  days,  and  it  is  pleasant,  even 
now,  to  wander  in  the  summer  by  the  shadow 
of  the  walls  and  look  out  upon  the  farms  and 
the  green  things  growing. 

When  a  New  Yorker  enters  these  places, 
though,  their  atmosphere  is  something  death- 
like to  him.  This  merely  vegetable  growth, 
this  life  of  the  market-day  and  harvest,  is 
deathly  dull;  and  the  place  itself,  as  the 
phrase  is,  dead  and  alive.  Possibly,  our  fab- 
ulous New  Yorker  visiting  these  places  (if  he 
visits  them  we  must  make  him  fabulous) — 
possibly,  he  may  find  things  to  admire  in 


140  Henry  Vane. 

them ;  and  the  first  day,  he  smokes  his  cigar 
on  the  battlements  and  gets  along  well  enough. 
But  towards  the  afternoon  of  the  second — 
when*  he  has  had  his  morning  drive,  and  his 
daughter  has  brought  home  her  water-color — 
a  terrible  pall  of  silence,  a  stealthy,  dread 
ennui  comes  over  him.  Ten  to  one  but  he  flies 
by  the  night  express  to  the  nearest  city  with  an 
evening  paper — Marseilles,  let  us  say,  or  Nice. 
And  there,  the  daughter  finds  a  band  in  the 
Promenade  des  Anglais,  and  her  water-color 
remains  unfinished. 

Vane  was  conscious  of  some  of  this  ;  he  had 
been  long  enough  in  New  York  for  that. 
There  was  little  here  to  interest  an  American. 
But  still,  it  was  pleasant ;  and  life  was  made  so 
simple  an  affair !  and  its  outside  was  so  sweet. 
How  much  more  life  promised  to  one  in 
America !  He  did  not  distrust  the  promise ; 
but  a  question  is  the  first  shade  of  doubt. 
And  it  really  seemed,  sometimes,  as  if,  in  ceas- 
ing to  oppress  one  another,  men  had  forgotten 
how  to  make  each  other  happy. 


Henry  Vane.  141 

There  is  much  beauty  to  be  found  in  the 
South  of  France ;  with  a  something  grander, 
more  venerable,  in  these  old  moulds  of  life 
than  one  can  expect  among  discordant  sects 
and  syncretisms.  Vane  enjoyed  his  summer 
to  the  full,  and  drank  in  the  sunlight  like  a 
wine,  forgetting  that  he  was  alone.  And 
the  people  seemed  so  full  and  sound;  with 
qualities  of  their  own,  and  self-supporting 
lives ;  not  characters  that  they  assumed,  or 
tried  to  make  other  people  give  them ;  nor 
with  natures  colorless,  flavorless,  save  for  some 
spirit  of  a  poor  ambition. 

I  do  not  know  what  Vane  had  in  his  mind 
when  this  last  thought  so  struggled  for  ex- 
pression. He  was  not  ill-natured,  nor  yet 
excessively  captious.  I  suppose  he  was  a 
little  disappointed  with  his  own  country.  At 
all  events,  he  soon  forgot  America  that  sum- 
mer. And,  after  all,  he  had  seen  but  one  unit, 
and  there  are  more  than  fifty  millions  of  them. 
Nor,  perhaps,  did  he  yet  know  Miss  Thomas — 
the  unit  whom  he  had  known  best. 


XVIII. 

IN  his  life,  Henry  Vane  had  hitherto  been 
prospecting.  He  had  sunk  several  shafts 
deep  into  it,  and  had  worked  them  honestly, 
but  he  had  not  had  very  much  success.  He  had 
struck  gold ;  but  he  had  not  struck  much  of 
anything  else  ;  and  gold  had  now  ceased  to  be 
of  the  first  importance.  The  prime  solution 
of  the  difficulty  had  only  been  postponed, 
in  Brittany,  that  day  five  years  before  ;  it  had 
not  been  met.  The  demands  of  a  human  life 
had  never  been  liquidated ;  they  had  been 
funded,  temporarily;  and  now  the  note  was 
falling  due.  He,  also,  had  been  getting  his 
daily  bread,  and  had  been  delivered  from  evil. 
But  now  the  old  question  kept  recurring, 
and  the  sphinx  would  have  an  answer.  The 
premature  harvest  was  over  (he  was  in  Spain), 
forced  into  sooner  ripeness  by  those  passionate 
skies ;  all  the  country  was  burned,  the  herbage 


Henry  Vane.  143 

gone,  the  hot  earth  cracked  and  ravined.  Only 
the  yellow  oranges  were  yet  to  come,  that 
ripened  for  the  winter  ;  and  the  orange  groves 
still  gave  some  verdure  to  the  hills,  contrasting 
with  the  sober  skies.  Along  the  ridge  by  the 
Mediterranean  was  a  file  of  graceful  palm 
trees,  swinging  their  languid  arms  above  the 
sea. 

Vane  had  come  along  the  coast  as  far  as  Tar- 
ragona ;  and  he  was  lying  in  the  shadow  of  the 
lovely  hill  of  Monserrat,  thinking.  He  had 
been  reading  his  letters  again ;  and  was  seeking 
to  come  to  some  resolve.  Nobody  in  the  world 
had  any  claim  upon  his  action  now,  save  only 
the  old  doctor  at  Rennes.  Vane  had  promised 
him  a  visit  every  summer. 

He  had  now  no  great  duty  in  America ;  but 
still,  he  felt  that  he  must  soon  be  going  back. 
For  good  or  evil,  his  path  lay  there.  And  after 
all,  this  island  in  an  eddy  of  the  world,  this 
shore  of  the  Mediterranean,  facing  backward 
to  the  East — it  was  idle  staying  here.  He 
smiled  to  himself  as  he  thought  of  his  own 


144  Henry  Vane. 

older  thoughts,  when  he  had  melodramatically 
planned  for  a  war  or  some  forlorn  hope  in  Af- 
rican discovery.  There  is  something  half 
shameful,  half  sad,  in  seeing  one's  own  older 
folly,  one's  boyish  vanity  and  egotism.  He 
had  the  necessary  money  now,  but  there  was 
no  longer  anything  attractive  to  him  in  the  life 
of  Paris  ;  even  dreams  of  adventure  in  the  Sou- 
dan did  not  now  fire  his  imagination.  Vane 
had  learned  that  no  American  could  do  without 
America,  least  of  all  an  American  with  nothing 
but  his  country  left.  What  was  he  doing  on 
this  shelvage  of  a  bounded  sea  ?  this  stage  set- 
ting for  past  dramas,  where  the  play  was  over 
and  the  lights  turned  out.  And  Vane  thought 
to  himself  of  Bellefontaine,  Ohio,  and  the  great 
future  of  the  West,  and  eager  Wall  Street.  The 
phrases  rolled  off  glibly,  like  a  well-taught 
lesson.  Still,  their  being  trite  did  not  prevent 
their  being  true.  Surely  there  was  something 
real,  something  actual,  progressive  in  America, 
to  make  one's  life  worth  living  there.  His 
own  country  aroused  his  interest,  was  worth 


Henry  Vane.  145 

his  study.  As  for  the  trivial  girl  with  whom 
he  had  flirted — by  whom  he  had  been  cor- 
rupted— he  had  wasted  his  time  over  her. 
When  he  went  back  he  would  go  farther 
abroad. 

And  return  he  must.  He  was  wanted  in 
America.  The — the  affairs  of  his  bank  required 
his  presence.  His  old  partner,  by  this  time, 
was  probably  wild  with  irritation  and  amaze- 
ment at  his  prolonged  absence ;  and  there 
would  be  heaps  of  letters  awaiting  him  at 
Seville  ;  a  crescendo  of  increasing  urgency,  end- 
ing with  daily  telegrams.  Then  there  was  the 
sale  of  the  railway.  If  successful,  it  meant  an 
assured  fortune,  to  him  and  his  heirs,  if  he  had 
any.  And  an  assured  fortune  is  like  a  license, 
a  ticket-of-leave  to  mould  your  future  as  you 
will.  Vane  spent  much  time  in  endeavoring 
to  make  this  motive  sufficient  unto  himself. 

He  took  steamer  at  Valencia  and  sailed  out, 
westward,  between  the  Pillars  of  Hercules. 
After  all,  this  was  more  than  Ulysses  had  ever 

dared  do,  and  Ulysses  was  a  hero  of  epic. 
10 


146  Henry  Vane. 

Moreover,  like  any  Irish  emigrant,  Ulysses 
had  believed  in  the  blessed  Western  isles. 
But  then  Ulysses  had  been  in  search  of  a 
home ;  he,  Vane,  was  only  in  search  of  a  for- 
tune. 

The  steamer  touched  at  Cadiz  for  several 
days ;  and  there  Vane  went  ashore  and  ran  up 
to  Seville,  by  rail,  to  get  his  letters.  There 
was  no  other  letter  from  Miss  Thomas.  Then 
he  went  to  Granada,  and  wandered  for  an  even- 
ing through  the  Alhambra. 

He  had  got  his  New  York  papers  at  Seville, 
and  he  spent  half  an  hour  or  more  looking 
over  the  stock  quotations,  on  a  hill  near  the 
Generalife.  Stocks  seemed  to  be  higher  than 
ever ;  he  had  made  still  more  money.  While 
he  was  doing  this  he  heard  the  tinkling  of  a 
zither  or  guitar,  and,  looking  down,  he  saw 
that  the  sound  proceeded  from  the  court-yard 
of  what  was,  apparently,  a  little  inn  or  venta. 

The  broad  Vega  lay  smiling  beneath  him, 
stretching  green  and  fertile  to  the  last  low  hill 
from  which  the  banished  Moor  had  looked 


Henry  Vane.  147 

back  upon  Granada;  while  around  him,  in 
every  street  and  alley,  was  the  tinkle  of  the 
waters,  still  rushing  from  their  source  in  the 
snows  through  the  Moor's  aqueducts,  which 
kept  his  memory  green  with  the  verdure  of  the 
one  green  spot  in  Spain.  Far  above,  to  the 
left  of  Vane  as  he  sat,  were  the  pale  snows  of 
the  Sierra  Nevada,  amber  or  ashen  in  the 
brown  air  of  evening.  The  short  work  of  the 
Spanish  day  was  over ;  the  strumming  of  gui- 
tars was  multiplied  in  the  stillness  ;  and,  look- 
ing down  again,  Vane  even  saw  a  girl  dancing 
in  the  little  inn  yard. 

There  was  no  other  spectator  but  a  swarthy 
man  in  black — her  lover,  probably— with  a 
gray  hat,  and  a  black  scarf  about  his  waist. 
He  was  playing  on  the  zither,  and  the  girl  be- 
gan to  sing  some  strange  Spanish  air  with 
long,  chromatic  cadences,  and  a  wild,  unusual 
rhythm. 

They  did  not  know  that  he  was  looking  on ; 
and  the  girl  went  on  with  her  dance,  which  no 
one  else  seemed  to  notice  but  the  lover,  who 


148  Henry  Vane. 

struck  his  hands  together,  now  and  then,  in 
applause  or  to  mark  the  rhythm.  Vane 
watched  with  interest.  It  was  curious  to 
think  that  she  was  really  dancing,  dancing  and 
singing,  and  neither  of  them  was  paid  for  it. 

Vane  landed  in  New  York  about  the  first  of 
September. 


XIX. 

HE  went  to  the  bank,  and  found  that  nothing 
more  had  been  heard  from  Welsh.  There 
was  nothing  doing ;  even  his  partner  was  out  of 
town.  The  city  was  empty.  Vane's  first  act 
was  to  send  to  Doctor  Kerouec  a  sum  sufficient 
to  endow  liberally  and  for  all  time  all  the 
societes  de  consummation  that  there  were  in 
Rennes.  It  did  not  cost  much ;  and  the  money 
was  thriftily  invested  by  the  doctor,  with  a 
most  gratifying  increase  in  the  annual  statistics 
of  soup.  This  he  quarterly  reported  to  his 
young  friend  with  as  much  satisfaction  as  if 
the  statistics  were  of  souls  saved  for  heaven ; 
but  there  was  a  note  of  sadness  now  in  the 
old  doctor's  letters  which  had  not  been  notice- 
able before. 

The  city  was  a  mass  of  undistinguished  hu- 
manity. Vane  rather  liked  this ;  and  found 
much  satisfaction  in  going  to  Coney  Island 


150  Henry  Vane. 

and  similar  places  where  the  people  asserted 
themselves  with  frankness  and  sincerity.  One's 
fellow-man  is  always  interesting,  when  not 
factitious. 

But  after  a  very  few  weeks  of  New  York,  he 
wearied  of  it.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to 
take  so  much  interest  in  his  business,  now  that  it 
was  so  very  successful.  The  labor  did  not  seem 
to  him  so  healthy,  so  satisfying  as  of  old ;  it 
could  hardly  be  termed  his  daily  bread,  even  by 
a  stretch  of  metaphor.  Moreover,  one's  daily 
bread  is  got  for  one  by  wholesale  in  America ; 
machine-raised,  by  the  thousand  bushels,  in 
Minnesota,  and  brought  ready  to  hand  for 
the  million,  like  the  other  raw  materials  of 
life. 

Vane  was  tired  of  the  raw  material  of  life — 
he  felt  a  want  for  something  that  was  not 
ground  out  by  the  wholesale.  But  the  only 
finished  product  he  had  yet  seen  was  Miss 
"Winifred  Thomas.  She  was  a  product  of  the 
city — perhaps  he  ought  to  go  further  afield. 
Wemyss  had  once  said  that  people  only  got 


Henry  Vane.  151 

the  means  of  living  in  New  York.  They  went 
elsewhere  to  live. 

And  the  young  man  was  anxious,  above  all 
things,  to  live,  to  find  in  life  what  was  ear- 
nest and  genuine :  not  the  mere  means,  like 
money,  nor  the  makeshifts,  like  fashion.  Vane 
wanted  happiness,  not  pleasure ;  like  most 
young  men,  he  felt  injured  if  he  did  not  get  it 

It  may  have  been  this  craving  for  humanity 
that  made  the  city  unendurable  to  him,  or  it 
may  have  been  the  heat,  which,  late  in  Sep- 
tember, was  most  intense.  Whatever  it  was, 
he  felt  restless  and  uneasy  in  the  city,  and  cast 
about  him  where  he  could  best  go  for  seclusion 
and  fresh  air.  Some  acquaintance  suggested 
Cinerea  Lake.  It  was  at  that  time  crowded 
with  people,  which  would  make  seclusion  easy ; 
and  it  was  a  "  popular  summer  resort,"  which, 
he  thought,  would  be  a  novelty  to  him,  coming 
from  Carcassonne  and  the  monasteries  of  Mon- 
serrat.  Moreover,  Cinerea  was  one  of  the 
places  in  America  which  people  visited  solely 
in  search  of  happiness. 


152  Henry  Vane. 

Cinerea  Lake  was  formerly  known  as  But- 
ternut Pond  ;  it  belonged  to  a  Mr.  Sabin ; 
and  the  village  was  Sabin's  simply.  But 
the  pond  is  really  a  lake,  and  it  lies  near  a 
spur  of  the  Appalachian  Mountains.  The 
place  had  originally  been  marked  by  a  farm- 
house only,  to  which  some  popular  preacher 
had  betaken  himself  for  the  summer  months. 
In  an  evil  moment  he  had  come  back,  one 
autumn,  and  written  a  book  about  the  delights 
of  the  hills ;  the  delights  that  he  found  in  the 
hills.  In  the  next  year  seven-eighths  of  the 
ladies  in  his  parish,  and  their  friends,  had 
settled  upon  the  country,  in  search,  they  too,  of 
the  delights  of  the  hills ;  they  occupied  the  farm- 
houses within  a  radius  of  several  miles,  and 
crocheted.  The  year  after  that  had  witnessed, 
at  only  a  few  weeks'  interval,  the  foundation 
and  the  completion  of  the  Butternut  Grand 
Hotel.  And  now  the  place  was  beginning  to 
be  known  to  that  world  which  calls  itself  society, 
and  which  the  rest  of  society  calls  fashionable. 
Little  of  all  this  was  known  to  Vane,  however. 


Henry  Vane.  153 

He  understood  that  it  was  cool  and  crowded, 
and  thither  he  accordingly  went. 

Vane  had  his  days  of  self-gratulation,  like 
another ;  and  it  was  in  one  of  them  that  he 
left  town  for  his  vacation.  He  felt  that  soon 
a  fortune,  and  a  large  one,  would  be  assured  him. 
He  was  an  independent  and  successful  citizen 
of  America,  with  all  his  country  before  him,  and 
the  chances  in  his  favor.  He  had  lately  seen 
something  of  a  friend  or  two  also  in  town  for 
the  summer ;  and  had  had  an  occasional  little 
dinner  with  John  or  some  other  man,  in  the 
club,  or  by  the  sea  ;  Vane  was  sociable  enough, 
though  not  gregarious,  and  he  felt  rich  in  ac- 
quaintances with  half  a  dozen  or  so.  They 
were  most  of  them  still  in  the  city  ;  and  Vane 
felt  a  sense  of  freedom,  of  adventure,  as  he  left 
it,  which  became  stronger  every  moment  as 
the  train  flew  northward.  But  the  journey  was 
one  of  many  hours,  and  it  was  late  in  the  twi- 
light of  the  next  afternoon  before  he  alighted  at 
Cinerea  Lake — called  Cinerea  by  the  ladies  who 
had  looked  in  the  lexicon  to  christen  it  anew. 


XX. 

THE  Butternut  Grand  Hotel  was  large  and 
white ;  with  a  hundred  windows,  all  of  the 
same  size,  equidistant,  and  in  four  parallel 
rows.  Had  any  one  of  them  been  unfinished, 
like  the  window  in  Aladdin's  tower,  it  need  not 
have  so  remained ;  with  a  few  hours'  work 
any  joiner  could  have  evened  it  up  with 
the  rest.  A  huge  verandah  surrounded  the 
structure,  roofed  above  the  second  story; 
and  up  and  down  the  painted  floor  of  this 
verandah  a  score  of  pairs  of  young  ladies 
promenaded.  Young  ladies  they  were  called 
in  the  society  columns  of  the  summer  Sunday 
papers ;  speaking  colloquially,  one  might  have 
called  them  girls.  Vane's  black  suit  was  dusty, 
and  in  his  travel-stained  condition  it  was  em- 
barrassing to  be  the  object  of  young  feminine 
eyes ;  but  as  most  of  them  stopped  their  walk 
to  observe  his  entrance,  there  was  nothing  for 


Henry  Vane.  155 

it  but  to  cast  his  own  eyes  down,  and  walk 
modestly  through  the  line.  It  was  a  worse 
gantlet  than  the  Calais  pier.  Vane  went  to 
the  office  to  ask  for  his  room ;  but  it  was  some 
minutes  before  the  clerk,  who  was  talking  with 
another  gentleman,  could  give  him  his  atten- 
tion. When  he  did  so  he  scanned  Vane  rudely 
before  replying,  and  at  last,  as  he  opened  his 
lips  to  answer,  two  of  the  young  ladies  from 
the  piazza  rushed  in  to  ask  for  their  mail, 
and,  pushing  Vane  slightly  aside,  engaged  the 
clerk's  attention.  "Now,  Mr.  Hitchcock,  you 
don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  have  no  letters 
for  me?"  said  one.  The  other  looked  at 
Vane  while  she  spoke,  as,  indeed,  did  the 
speaker. 

When  the  clerk  began  sorting  the  heap  of 
letters  which  had  just  come  in  the  coach,  Vane 
acquired  the  flattering  conviction  that  the  mail 
was  but  a  pretext,  and  himself  the  cause. 

"  There  are  none,  indeed,  Miss  Morse,"  said 
the  clerk;  and  the  girls  fluttered  gaily  out. 
"I'll  write  you  one  myself,  if  you'll  wait," 


156  Henry  Vane. 

added  the  clerk  jocosely.  But  the  only  reply 
to  this  was  a  Parthian  glance  from  Miss 
Morse,  which  embraced  Vane  in  its  orbit. 
The  clerk  looked  after  them  with  a  smile,  and 
then,  after  meditating  a  moment,  turned  to 
Vane. 

"  Now,  what  can  I  do  for  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  engaged  a  room." 

"  What  name  ?  " 

"Vane." 

"  Three  twelve,"  said  the  clerk,  and  turned 
back  to  his  first  interlocutor,  who  had  been 
standing  silent  in  the  meantime,  chewing  a 
toothpick  and  regarding  the  opposite  wall. 

Vane's  chamber  was  a  long  and  narrow 
room  shaped  like  a  pigeon-hole  in  a  desk.  A 
ventilating  window  was  above  the  door,  and  a 
single  window  opposite,  uncurtained,  looking 
out  upon  a  long,  monotonous  slope  of  moun- 
tain, which  was  clothed  shabbily  in  a  wood  of 
short  firs.  The  sides  and  roof  of  the  room 
were  of  coarse  plaster  ;  a  red  carpet  was  upon 
the  floor.  Some  delay  was  caused  by  Vane'a 


Henry  Vane.  157 

ringing  for  a  bath,  and  still  further  delay  by 
the  waitress  in  obtaining  the  information  that 
he  could  not  have  one  unless  he  gave  notice 
the  day  before.  While  Yane  was  waiting  for 
all  this  he  heard  the  door  of  the  next  room 
open,  and  the  distinctness  of  the  feminine 
voices  bore  testimony  to  the  thinness  of  the 
walls.  There  were  seemingly  two  young  ladies 
there,  but  their  conversation  was  interrupted 
by  a  gong,  which,  as  one  of  the  voices  informed 
him,  was  the  gong  for  supper.  A  consequent 
scuffle  took  place,  and  this  was  only  ended  by 
the  final  bang  of  the  door  that  announced  the 
departure  of  his  neighbors. 

Vane  followed  their  example,  and  entered  a 
long  dining-hall  in  which  two  rows  of  tables, 
eighteen  in  each  row,  were  disposed  trans- 
versely; there  were  eighteen  seats  at  every 
table,  many  of  which  were  already  occupied. 
After  waiting  a  minute  at  the  door  he  was 
shown  to  a  seat  next  a  Jewish  family  and 
several  young  men — evidently  a  sort  of  omni- 
bus table,  to  which  the  negro  waiters,  with 


158  Henry  Vane. 

a  nice  social  discrimination,  ushered  soli- 
tary males.  Possibly  for  this  reason,  they 
were  not  well  served.  The  table  was  covered 
with  little  oval  dishes  of  coarse  stoneware 
containing  dip-toast,  fried  potatoes,  and  slices 
of  cold  meat.  Steaks  and  omelets  were  an- 
nounced in  a  printed  bill  of  fare,  and  tea 
and  coffee.  Vane  was  unable  to  interest 
himself  in  his  companions,  and  watched  the 
people  coming  in.  Most  of  the  elderly 
ladies  and  some  of  the  young  girls  wore 
large  solitaire  diamonds,  and  bore  down, 
as  if  under  full  sail,  through  the  broad  aisle, 
with  elaborate  assumption  of  indifference 
and  social  dignity.  It  was  evident  that,  to 
many  of  them,  the  people  who  were  seated  at 
these  tables  represented  the  World.  The  men 
looked  more  respectable,  but  even  more  out 
of  place ;  and  the  girls,  of  whom  many  were 
pretty,  came  tripping  in  by  twos,  with  infinite 
variety  of  gait  and  action.  Vane  noticed  that 
Miss  Morse  and  her  friend  had  changed 
their  dresses.  They  did  not  look  at  him.  Miss 


Henry  Vane.  159 

Morse's  friend  had  a  novel  in  her  hand  which 
she  read  during  the  meal. 

After  supper  Vane  walked  up  and  down  the 
verandah.  Most  of  the  girls  did  the  same, 
still  in  couples.  Despite  the  cool  mountain 
air,  many  of  them  wore  low-throated  muslin 
dresses.  Vane's  quasi  -  acquaintance,  Miss 
Morse,  was  not  among  them ;  but  about  nine  in 
the  evening  a  figure  came  out  of  a  side-door  in 
front  of  him,  in  a  sort  of  summer  evening  ball 
dress,  and  stood  a  moment  by  the  piazza  rail- 
ing, pensively  looking  at  the  stars.  As  Vane 
passed  by  he  saw  that  it  was  Miss  Morse,  and 
he  could  not  help  wondering  whether  she  ex- 
pected him  to  speak  to  her.  As  he  passed  the 
windows  of  the  large  dining-hall  brilliantly 
lighted  with  gas,  he  saw  that  they  were  danc- 
ing inside.  A  few  instruments  were  in  one 
corner,  and  perhaps  half  a  dozen  couples 
waltzing  on  the  floor.  Some  young  men  were 
there  in  evening  dress,  but  not  enough  to  go 
round,  and  many  of  the  girls  were  dancing 
with  each  other.  Vane  had  to  admit  that  most 


160  Henry  Vane. 

of  them  danced  very  gracefully  and  well.  Af- 
ter a  moment,  Miss  Morse  came  in.  She  had 
apparently  some  pretensions,  for  she  sank  into 
an  arm-chair  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and 
refused  to  dance.  There  was  a  sort  of  master 
of  ceremonies  in  the  person  of  a  sallow  and 
thin  but  dapper  young  gentleman  who  had  all 
the  affable  address  of  a  popular  lady's  sales- 
man, and  Vane  saw  him  present  several  young 
men  to  Miss  Morse.  All  this  became  at  last 
somewhat  tiresome,  and,  feeling  lonely,  Yane 
went  to  bed. 

He  had  almost  got  to  sleep  when  he  was 
aroused  by  the  voices  of  his  feminine  neigh- 
bors. "Well,  I  think  he's  perfectly  horrid," 
said  one.  "  No,"  said  another,  "  he  ain't  much 
of  an  addition.  I  told  father  I  must  have  two 
new  ball  dresses,  because  I  was  coming  here 
for  the  society.  I  had  to  tease  him  for  them 
for  a  month,  and  now,  I  declare,  I  might  just 
as  well  have  stayed  in  the  city  all  summer. 
Come  and  undo  this,  will  you,  please  ?  " 

"Sh!"  said  the  other  voice,  "how  do  you 


Henry  Vane.  161 

know  there  isn't  some  one  next  door  ?  "  A  si- 
lence followed,  interrupted  by  bursts  of  stifled 
laughter. 

"Well,  I  don't  care,"  said  the  first  voice. 
"  There  wasn't  any  one  there  yesterday,  any- 
how. Did  you  see  how  he  was  dressed? 
Nothing  but  a  common,  rough  suit." 

"  Oh,  don't  you  like  that  ?  Why,  I  call  that 
real  distinguished." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  I  don't  see  why  he  couldn't 
get  introduced.  I  call  it  simply  rude,  English- 
man or  no  Englishman."  At  this  point  the 
unfortunate  stranger  seemed  finally  disposed 

of,  and  Vane  went  to  sleep. 
11 


XXI. 

fPHEEE  is  one  long  road  at  Cinerea  Lake, 
A  always  dusty,  with  a  sidewalk  of  planks. 
,  The  hotel,  with  the  appendant  cottages,  is  on 
the  one  side,  and  a  few  old  farmhouses,  now 
boarding-houses,  with  a  dozen  little  wooden 
shops,  are  on  the  other.  Most  of  the  shops 
sell  novels,  sweetmeats,  embroidery  work,  and 
newspapers.  There  were  not  many  men  at 
Cinerea.  It  is  not  customary  in  America  for 
men  to  join  their  wives  and  children  on  pleas- 
ure excursions.  What  few  men  there  were 
seemed  oppressed  by  the  novelty  of  the  po- 
sition, and  sat  in  chairs  upon  the  piazza,  with 
their  feet  upon  the  railing.  They  seldom  ven- 
tured farther  during  the  day.  There  was  a 
stock  telegraph  instrument  in  the  hall  of  the 
hotel,  and  an  enterprising  New  York  broker 
had  an  office  in  an  ante-room.  Vane  noticed 
that  every  one  of  these  gentlemen  left  their 


Henry  Vane.  163 

foot-rests  on  the  verandah  shortly  after  break- 
fast, and,  following  them  to  the  nearest  store, 
he  learned  that  this  activity  was  caused  by  a 
desire  to  purchase  the  evening  papers  of  the 
day  before,  which  arrived,  as  a  written  placard 
informed  him,  at  9.45  A.M.  Vane  himself  asked 
for  a  paper,  but  got  no  answer  from  the  young 
woman  behind  the  counter,  while  a  friend  who 
was  sitting  with  her,  working,  and  eating  pieces 
of  chocolate  from  a  paper  bag  upon  her  lap, 
stopped  her  embroidery  a  moment  to  stare 
at  him  rudely.  Suddenly  it  dawned  upon 
Vane  that  he  had  seen  the  faces  of  these  two 
ladies  at  his  hotel.  They  were  sitting  on  a 
little  piazza  in  front  of  the  shop,  behind  a 
small  counter,  but  the  shop  itself  seemed  to  be 
a  sort  of  club-room  for  the  ladies  of  the  place, 
and  these  were  evidently  guests.  Vane  apolo- 
gized for  his  error  with  some  inward  amuse- 
ment, but  his  speech  was  rewarded  with  a  still 
blanker  stare  from  the  young  woman  with  the 
chocolate. 
So  far,  this  "popular  summer  resort"  prom- 


164  Henry  Vane. 

ised  more  errors  than  entertainment.  Vane 
had  certainly  never  felt  so  lonely  before  as 
among  this  gay  company.  Work  gives  its  own 
companionship,  but  idleness  is  gregarious. 
The  place  was  full  of  girls  of  all  styles  of  be- 
havior and  prettiness.  Some  were  playing 
tennis,  others  making  up  companies  for  drives, 
others  starting  off  for  long  walks.  Yane  had 
pictured  the  type  of  American  girlhood  as 
something  fragile  and  delicate,  but  these  had 
healthy  faces  and  lithe  young  figures  robed  in 
flannel  and  untrammelled  by  the  dressmak- 
ers' art.  They  were  bright,  quick  with  their 
eyes,  but  far  from  ethereal.  Vane  himself 
went  to  walk,  and,  after  following  the  road  for 
a  mile  or  so,  entered  a  woody  path,  which,  as  a 
finger-post  assured  him,  led  to  Diana's  baths. 

He  felt  much  in  the  mood  for  a  meeting 
with  a  heathen  goddess,  and  entered  the  forest 
accordingly.  But  he  found  nothing  nearer 
Diana  than  Miss  Morse  and  her  friend,  who 
were  sitting  reading  with  two  young  men. 
The  path  seemed  to  vanish  where  they  sat,  and 


Henry  Vane.  165 

Vane  made  bold  to  stop  and  ask  one  of  the 
young  men  the  way.  They  were  slow  of 
speech,  and  Miss  Morse  herself  replied.  She 
assured  him  that  he  was  at  his  destination, 
and  Vane  found  himself,  in  a  moment,  in  con- 
versation with  her. 

Diana's  Baths  were  formed  by  a  small  brook 
trickling  over  some  mossy  rocks  and  making  a 
few  pools  in  which  Diana  might  possibly  have 
wet  her  feet.  Vane  made  this  suggestion, 
which  was  received  with  much  laughter,  at  the 
end  of  which  he  found  himself  on  such  a  foot- 
ing of  intimacy  that  he  was  being  introduced 
to  Miss  Morse's  companions :  "  Miss  Wester- 
house,  may  I  introduce  Mr. Mr. " 

"  Vane,"  suggested  he.  "  Mr.  Vane,  of  New- 
York,  Miss  Morse.  Miss  "Westerhouse,  Mr. 
Vane.  Mr.  Vane,  Mr.  Thomson  and  Mr.  Dib- 
ble." The  young  men  nodded  rather  awk- 
wardly. Miss  Westerhouse  made  a  place  on  the 
rock  beside  her,  and  Vane  sat  down  wondering 
how  the  situation  would  be  explained,  and  who 
had  told  her  that  he  came  from  New  York. 


166  Henry  Vane. 

"  I  met  you  yesterday  on  your  arrival,  did  I 
not  ?  "  Miss  Morse  went  on. 

Yane  admitted  that  she  had,  and  remem- 
bered the  scene  with  the  hotel  clerk. 

"Coming  from  New  York,  I  fear  you  will 
find  Cinerea  Lake  rather  dull.  We  are  after 
the  season,  you  know." 

He  hastened  to  assure  her  that  he  had 
found  the  place  most  attractive. 

"  It  is  getting  to  be  rather  too  well  known  now, 
but  it  is  pretty,  though  not  so  nice  as  it  was. 
You  meet  all  sorts  of  people  here  already." 

Vane  felt  duly  instructed  as  to  the  social 
position  of  his  companions,  and  assented,  with 
much  honesty,  to  her  last  statement. 

"It  is  not  very  gay  here,  now.  We  have  a 
hop  twice  a  week." 

"  That  will  be  delightful,"  said  Vane  with 
enthusiasm. 

"  Do  you  reside  in  New  York  ?  "  Miss  Wes- 
terhouse  broke  in. 

"As  much  as  I  do  anywhere,"  said  Vane. 
"  I  have  to  travel  a  great  deal."  Vane  noticed 


Henry  Vane.  167 

a  sudden  lack  of  interest  in  him  after  this 
remark,  and  fancied  that  they  set  him  down 
for  a  commercial  traveler.  "  I  have  only  lived 
in  New  York  of  late  years,  and  then  only  when 

I  am  not on  the  road,"  he  added,  as  the 

humorous  view  of  the  situation  struck  him.  A 
silence  followed  this  remark,  and  a  certain 
coldness;  but  Vane,  who  had  a  particularly 
comfortable  place,  leaning  back  on  a  mossy 
rock,  made  no  motion  to  go.  Finally  Miss 
Westerhouse  made  an  effort. 

"  Then  you  are  not  much  acquainted  in  New 
York." 

"I  have  a  good  many  business  acquaint- 
ances." 

"  Oh,  I  mean  your  lady  friends." 

"I  have  none,"  said  Vane. 

"Some  very  pleasant  New  Yorkers  have 
been  here,"  said  Miss  Morse,  "  but  they  only 
stayed  a  few  days.  Mrs.  Haviland  and  Miss 

Thomas  "  Vane  could  not  repress  a 

slight  movement.  "Do  you  know  them?" 
said  the  young  lady  with  some  interest. 


168  Henry  Vane. 

"Miss  Winifred  Thomas?" 

"This  was  Miss  Baby— 

"  It  is  the  same  person,"  said  Vane,  with 
decision. 

"Is  she  not  just  too  lovely  ?  "  broke  in  again 
Miss  Westerhouse,  with  enthusiasm.  Vane 
could  not  but  concur  in  this  sentiment.  Miss 
Morse's  interest  in  him  seemed  revived. 

"  I  suppose  we  must  go  back  to  dinner 
now,"  said  she.  "  By  the  way,  we  are  going 
to  have  a  straw-ride  this  afternoon.  Would 
you  not  like  to  come,  Mr.  Vane  ?  The  gentle- 
men are  getting  it  up.  Mr.  Dibble,  here,  is 
chief  manager " 

Vane  said  he  should  be  delighted,  and  they 
rose  to  go.  Picking  up  two  books  and  a  bon- 
bonniere  which  lay  upon  the  grass,  he  fol- 
lowed Miss  Morse.  He  looked  at  the  books 
as  he  went,  and  uttered  a  slight  ejaculation. 
One,  to  be  sure,  was  Luctte,  but  the  other  was 
a  volume  of  Prosper  Merimee's  Lettres  a  une 
Inconnue. 

On  the  way  back  Vane  was  presented  to 


Henry  Vane.  169 

several  other  young  ladies,  and  when  he  finally 
entered  the  hotel  piazza,  it  was  in  company 
with  a  Miss  Parsons,  of  Brooklyn,  who  in  turn 
presented  him  to  a  Miss  Storrs,  of  Cleveland, 
and  left  them,  as  she  unnecessarily  explained, 
to  dress  for  dinner. 

Yane  was  rather  ashamed  to  own  to  himself 
that  he  was  displeased  at  the  acquaintance 
that  seemed  to  have  existed  between  Miss 
Thomas  and  his  late  companions.  Little  as 
he  cared  for  Miss  Thomas,  there  was  certainly 
a  world-wide  difference  between  her  and  Miss 
Morse,  Mr.  Thomson  and  Mr.  Dibble  ;  and  yet 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  admit  that  he 
was  snobbish  or  prejudiced.  It  was  simply 
that  the  wealth  and  education  of  these  young 
ladies  had  outstripped  their  breeding,  while 
the  young  men  were  still  seeking  for  the  first. 
He  pictured  to  himself  Miss  Thomas  sitting  in 
flannels  at  Diana's  Baths,  and  going  on  straw- 
rides  with  Mr.  Dibble,  and  the  idea  was  dis- 
tasteful to  him. 

It  was  surely  an  odd  chance  that  he  should 


170  Henry  Vane. 

travel  upon  her  wake  in  this  way.  Through- 
out the  afternoon  he  occasionally  caught  him- 
self wondering  how  she  would  appear  in  these 
surroundings.  This  thing  was  a  mixture  of 
Arcady  and  an  American  female  college,  with 
a  touch  of  Vauxhall  thrown  in.  And  it  was 
only  six  weeks  since  he  had  wandered  in  the 
moonlight  of  the  Alhambra ;  and  the  harvest 
was  hardly  all  gathered  that  had  been  ripen- 
ing about  the  walls  of  Carcassonne.  Vane 
wished  that  he  could  meet  these  people  at 
home — that  he  could  see  their  life  really  as  it 
was.  Was  this,  then,  all?  It  could  not  be. 
There  must  be  something  more  real  behind  it. 
Vane  could  fancy,  in  the  days  when  he  had 
been  in  love,  himself  and  her  living  in  that  out- 
of-the-way  corner  in  France,  in  that  forgotten 
nook  sheltered  on  the  backward  shores  of 
Spain,  eddied  in  the  flood  of  modern  life  and 
civilization,  where  he  had  wandered  in  the 
pine  woods  upon  Monserrat.  But  this  place, 
this  painted  wooden  hotel,  this  company, 
seemed  more  foreign  to  him  than  anything  in 


Henry  Vane.  171 

the  Old  World.  What  was  it  ?  What  was  it 
that  gave  the  strange  character  to  it  all? 
Was  he,  then,  such  a  foreigner  that  he  could 
not  understand  it  ?  Was  even  his  love  exotic, 
that  it  seemed  impossible  here  ? 

The  young  man  gave  himself  much  mental 
trouble  in  getting  at  the  secret  of  this  Ameri- 
can life.  And,  in  the  last  analysis,  it  seemed 
unreal — unreal  because  it  was  temporary ;  be- 
cause the  old  was  going  and  the  new  had  not 
yet  come  ;  because  it  was  like  the  wooden 
houses  and  the  temporary  bridges,  and  the 
provisional  social  conventions,  and  the  thin 
fashionable  veneer  of  neo-conservatism — it 
was  suffered  to  remain  until  the  people  found 
time  and  resolution  to  make  a  change. 


XXII. 

VANE,  however,  did  not  carry  his  analysis 
quite  so  far  as  this.  He  found  that  it  was 
unreal ;  there  he  stopped ;  the  why  was  too 
heavy  a  burden  for  him.  He  was  ready  and 
anxious  enough  to  make  it  real ;  but  still,  all 
through  his  life,  the  substance  of  life  itself  had 
kept  eluding  him,  and  left  the  shadow  in  his 
hand. 

Many  of  the  girls  (at  Cinerea  every  woman 
under  thirty  is  a  girl) — many  of  the  girls  were 
reading  novels,  American  summer  stories, 
written  by  girls  about  other  girls,  and  revel- 
ling in  the  summer  life  of  girls.  Vane  bor- 
rowed some  of  these  and  read  them.  They 
were  so  prettily  written,  so  charming,  so  awfully 
true,  he  was  told ;  and  he  liked  not  to  confess 
that  they  gave  him  but  a  little  passing  amuse- 
ment, which  was  followed  by  much  mental  de- 
pression. It  was  all  true  and  real,  then  ?  Was 


Henry  Vane.  173 

Vane  himself  something  of  a  prig?  John 
Haviland  did  not  think  so.  But  these  stories 
seemed  to  him  more  immoral,  or  at  all  events, 
more  corrupting,  than  many  a  French  romance 
ending  in  adultery.  There  was  in  them  an  ig- 
norance of  all  that  is  highest  in  life,  a  calm, 
self-satisfied  acceptance  of  a  petty  standard. 
The  strength  of  crime  implies  the  strength  of 
virtue,  but  the  negation  of  both  is  hopelessness. 
In  defence  of  Vane,  it  might  be  said  that  he 
was  really  not  in  the  mood  for  pleasure  at  this 
time. 

The  straw-ride  was  unanimously  declared  to 
be  a  great  success.  Miss  Morse  brought  her 
volume  of  Merimee  along  and  read  it  to  her 
young  man  in  the  woods.  Her  young  man  for 
the  afternoon,  that  is;  she  had  no  special 
young  man.  The  chaperone  was  the  beautiful 
Mrs.  Miles  Breeze,  of  Baltimore ;  she  arrived 
suddenly,  in  the  nick  of  time  to  go  ;  and  Vane 
could  see  that  Miss  Morse  was  much  elated  at 
being  under  the  wing  of  so  real  a  social  per- 
sonage. Ned  Eddy  was  with  her.  When  the 


174  Henry  Vane. 

company  paired  off  and  scattered  in  the  woods, 
Vane  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  Miss  Gibbs,  of  Phila- 
delphia, a  still  newer  acquaintance  to  whom 
Miss  Storrs  had  introduced  him.  Miss  Gibbs 
had  a  volume  of  Rossetti's  poems  with  her, 
and  Vane  read  to  her  the  "  Last  Confession " 
under  the  pine  trees.  For  many  a  foreigner, 
it  would  have  been  his  first.  But  the  hearts  of 
American  young  men  are  (very  properly)  bound 
in  triple  brass.  Miss  Gibbs  also  knew  Miss 
Thomas.  She  seemed  relieved  when  she  gath- 
ered from  Vane  that  Miss  Storrs  was  an  ac- 
quaintance of  a  few  hours,  and  Misses  Morse 
and  Westerhouse  of  the  morning  only.  Evi- 
dently, thought  Vane,  there  were  distinctions 
if  not  differences.  Miss  Gibbs  combined  much 
good-breeding  with  her  fascinations ;  and  a 
dangerous  savoir-faire. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  walk  with  a  dark- 
haired  girl  in  the  morning,  and  to  drive  with  a 
yellow-haired  widow  in  the  afternoon.  In  the 
evening  he  found  himself  drifting  on  the  lake 
in  a  boat  with  Miss  Gibbs.  Any  one  of  these 


Henry  Vane.  175 

beauties  would  have  been  termed,  by  a  French- 
man, adorable ;  and  probably  he  would  have 
ventured  to  adore.  Other  boats  with  similar 
couples  were  scattered  over  the  lake,  no  one  too 
near  another.  As  far  as  Yane  could  judge,  it 
seemed  to  be  considered  the  proper  thing  for 
every  young  man  to  simulate  the  deepest  love 
for  his  companion  of  the  hour.  It  was  a  sort 
of  private  theatrical,  with  the  out-door  night 
for  a  stage ;  a  midsummer  night's  dream,  of 
which  the  theme  was  let's  pretend  we're  lovers. 
He  was  here  alone  with  Miss  Gibbs  under  cir- 
cumstances which  in  France  would  have  com- 
pelled him  to  marry  her ;  and  it  was  doubtful 
whether  she  would  even  remember  him  as  an 
acquaintance,  in  the  city,  a  few  weeks  later. 

He  was  glad  to  admit  that  there  was  some- 
thing very  creditable  in  the  fact  that  the  thing 
was  possible.  Still  this  trifling,  this  mild  but 
continuous  drugging  of  the  affections,  must 
have  its  demoralizing  effect.  It  was  part  result 
and  part  cause  of  that  same  unreality.  The  only 
real  thing  about  the  hotel  was  the  stock-ticker ; 


176  Henry  Vane. 

and  even  there,  the  stock  that  it  registered  was 
water.  It  was  all  very  amusing.  Yet  the  fancy 
continually  recurred  of  Miss  Thomas,  in  this 
situation,  though  he,  of  all  men,  would  have 
had  no  right  to  be  displeased;  for  had  she 
not  definitely  told  him  he  had  none?  Still, 
it  was  hard  to  divest  himself  of  a  certain  sense 
of  property  in  her ;  he  had  mentally  appropri- 
ated her  for  so  long. 

He  was  plashing  carelessly  with  his  oars, 
and  watching  the  sheen  of  moonlight  on  the 
outline  of  his  companion's  fair  face,  suffering 
himself  for  a  moment  to  wonder  how  the  same 
light  would  have  fallen  in  Winifred's  blue 
eyes,  when  Miss  Gibbs  again  spoke  of  her. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  your  friend  Miss 
Thomas,  to-day,"  said  she.  The  deuce  she 
had  !  thought  Vane  ;  so  she  corresponds  with 
Miss  Gibbs,  does  she?  Vane  was  disgusted 
with  himself  for  thinking  so  much  about  the 
girl,  and  here  he  was  caught  thinking  of  her 
again. 

He   pulled  a  few  nervous    strokes.      How 


Henry  Vane.  177 

could  lie  see  the  letter  without  exciting  Miss 
Gibbs'  curiosity?  He  managed  it,  finally, 
and  read  the  letter.  He  was  secretly  relieved 
to  find  that  the  note  was  quite  formal  and  was 
simply  to  tell  Miss  Gibbs  that  she  need  not 
forward  a  piece  of  embroidery  which  had  been 
left  behind.  More  surprising  was  the  news 
that  Miss  Thomas  was  coming  back.  Vane 
made  himself  doubly  attentive  to  Miss  Gibbs  ; 
and  as  each  man  walked  back  with  his  lady, 
and  said  to  her  a  long  good-night  on  the  hotel 
piazza,  implying  all  the  sorrow  of  a  Borneo 
in  parting  from  a  Juliet,  Vane  was  secretly 
wondering  what  the  deuce  he  was  to  do. 
"  What  the  deuce !  "  was  again  the  phrase  he 
mentally  used.  He  did  not  wish  to  see  the  girl 
again — that  was  certain  enough ;  but  it  was 
decidedly  undignified  to  run  away.  There  was 
really  a  sort  of  fatality  in  their  meeting. 

But  the  best  way  to  treat  a  fatality  is  to  make 
nothing  of  it.  Thus  treated,  it  is  seldom  fatal. 
Then  he  was  rather  curious  to  see  how  Miss 

Thomas  would  behave  among  these  Dibbles 
12 


178  Henry  Vane, 

and  these  "Westerhouses.  After  all,  she  too  was 
an  American;  a  little  more  sophisticated,  a 
little  better  endowed  by  nature ;  but  she,  too, 
made  a  toy  of  love,  and  actors  in  private  the- 
atricals of  her  more  "  exciting  "  friends.  "  Ex- 
citing "  was  a  word  that  Vane  had  heard  Miss 
Westerhouse  apply  to  Mr.  Dibble.  Vane  had 
caught  a  little  of  the  Parisian's  contempt  for 
flirting  with  young  girls.  In  a  flirtation  with 
married  women,  he  thought,  there  were  at  least 
possibilities ;  and  the  flirtations  were  not  so 
utterly  silly.  But  marriage  was  far  too  serious 
an  affair  to  be  made  fun  of.  At  this  period 
Vane  affected  to  himself  an  extreme  cynicism. 
Intercourse  with  Cinerea  girls  had  corrupted 
him.  They  had  given  him  their  own  levity. 
At  another  time,  he  would  have  deplored  the 
vulgarization  of  a  lofty  sentiment ;  but  since 
the  past  June  he  had  been  in  a  flippant  mood 
himself.  The  American  cue  was  to  make  game 
of  everything  in  fun,  and  to  make  a  hazard  of 
life  in  earnest.  He  felt  that  he  was  becoming 
Americanized. 


Henry  Vane.  179 

Feminine  companionship  was  certainly  cor- 
rupting to  earnestness,  if  not  to  morals. 
By  the  end  of  this  week  he  felt  cloyed 
with  too  much  trifle.  He  sighed  for  a  man 
and  a  cigar,  for  a  seat  in  a  club,  for  a  glass  of 
brandy,  for  anything  else  masculine,  for  a  little 
of  man's  plain  language  and  strong  thinking. 
Yet  these  girls  were  no  fools  :  they  read  Pros- 
per Merimee's  Letters,  for  example.  They 
were  emancipated  enough.  But  they  also  read 
Lucile.  He  understood  why  women  were  not 
let  into  ancient  religions,  Freemasonry  and  the 
Egyptian  mysteries.  They  belittled  the  imag- 
ination. Per  contra,  they  were  essential  to  the 
Eleusinian.  Their  only  truly  great  role  was 
the  Moanad.  And  yet,  he  thought,  these  senti- 
ments of  his  would  have  shocked  these  girls. 

Vane's  thoughts  came  and  went  nervously. 
He  was  driving  in  a  buggy  alone,  or,  at  least, 
only  Miss  Morse  was  with  him.  He  was 
ashamed  of  himself ;  he  was  ashamed  of  his 
thinking  ;  he  was  ashamed,  thinking  as  he  did, 
of  his  inconsistency  in  driving  with  Miss 


180  Henry  Vane. 

Morse  in  a  buggy.  Postiche,  postiche,  it  was  all 
postiche,  or  was  it  frankness?  Was  it  the 
troubled  dream,  the  low  beginning  of  the  new 
conditions?  Was  his  disapproval  a  bit  of 
feudal  prejudice  ?  Vane  was  troubled,  excited, 
disgusted,  confused.  Miss  Morse  noticed  all 
this,  but  thought  he  was  in  love  with  her. 

The  only  green  spots  in  the  man's  memory 
were  Rennes,  and  Monserrat,  and  Carcassonne ; 
yes,  and  the  littered  desk  in  the  down-town 
office  in  New  York — the  scene  of  his  only 
labors  and  his  one  success.  And  that  success 
was  no  longer  necessary  ;  it  no  longer  profited 
any  one  but  himself.  Vane  had  never  formu- 
lated his  position  with  such  precision  before. 
The  last  person  of  his  own  family  was  dead ;  he 
had  claims  upon  no  one,  no  one  had  any 
claim  upon  him  ;  he  had  no  further  ambitions 
upon  Mammon.  Given  this  problem,  what  so- 
lution could  the  world  offer — the  New  York 
world,  that  is  ?  Somebody  says  life  is  made 
up  of  labor,  art,  love,  and  worship.  New  York 
had  given  him  labor,  which  he  had  performed. 


Henry  Vane.  181 

And  of  the  others  ?  Had  it  given  him  love, 
even  ?  Was  he  a  barbarian,  better  fitted  for  a 
struggle  with  crude  nature  than  New  York, 
not  up  to  the  refinements  of  modern  civilization? 
Should  he  leave  these  places  ?  Now,  that 
day  Miss  Thomas  was  to  come,  and  he  must 
decide.  He  thirsted  for  happiness ;  how  was 
he  best  to  find  it  ?  These  thoughts,  perhaps, 
seemed  selfish,  cold-blooded,  practical,  but 
there  was  a  sadness  in  them  for  Vane. 

So  thinking,  as  he  drove  his  buggy  along 
the  road,  they  passed  Miss  Thomas,  walking 
gracefully,  and  the  rich,  slow  color  burned 
through  her  face  and  fell  away  at  her  temples 
as  she  bowed.  Vane  drove  on  the  faster,  flick- 
ing his  horse  with  the  whip,  and  considered 
what  he  would  do  now  that  she  had  returned. 

He  would  treat  her  like  Miss  Westerhouse 
and  Miss  Gibbs  of  Philadelphia.  He  would  not 
have  his  own  movements  disturbed  by  her 
coming  and  going.  He  would  stay  his  intended 
fortnight  out  and  then  go. 


XXIII. 

T^HEBE  was  a  mountain  party  that  after- 
l  noon,  organized  by  Mr.  Dibble.  Vane 
supposed  that  Miss  Thomas  would  be  of  the 
number,  and  himself  stayed  away,  not  caring 
to  meet  her.  But  when  he  came  back,  after  a 
long  walk,  she  was  sitting  on  the  piazza  with 
Mrs.  Haviland.  Vane  passed  by,  raising  his 
hat.  She  looked  at  him  almost  wistfully,  not 
blushing  this  time,  but  very  pale.  When  he 
came  down  from  his  room,  before  tea,  he  went 
up  and  spoke  to  her. 

"  You  have  not  gone  to  the  picnic,  Miss 
Thomas!" 

She  looked  up  for  a  moment  at  him  ear- 
nestly ;  then,  dropping  her  eyes,  spoke  gravely 
and  rather  coldly. 

"  I  do  not  go  on  mountain  parties,  Mr. 
Vane." 

"AtCinereaLake?" 


Henry  Vane.  183 

"  At  Cinerea  Lake  or  elsewhere." 

"  Keally,  I  liad  flattered  myself  that  I  bad 
been  enjoying  your  own  diversions." 

Miss  Thomas  made  no  answer  whatever  to 
this.  Then,  after  some  minutes— "Why  did 
you  not  answer  my  letter  ?  " 

"I  did  not  know  it  required  an  answer." 

"I  value  your  friendship  very  highly.  It 
made  me  very  unhappy." 

"Apparently  you  were  successful  in  con- 
cealing your  unhappiness  from  your  friend 
Miss  Gibbs.  I  did  not  know  it  was  my  friend- 
ship you  cared  for." 

"I  am  in  the  habit  of  concealing  most 
things  from  Miss  Gibbs.  Have  I  ever  given 
you  reason  to  suppose  I  cared  for  anything  else 
than  your  friendship  ?  " 

"  You  have  lost  little  of  your  old  skill,"  said 
Vane,  grimly.  "I  cannot  conceive,  clever  as 
you  still  are,  that  you  should  have  been,  for  a 
year,  so  slow  of  comprehension.  You  would 
rather  I  should  think  you  a  flirt  than  mal- 
adroit." 


184  Henry  Vane. 

"  You  think  me  so  ?  "  Miss  Thomas  spoke 
as  if  she  were  going  to  cry.  Vane  looked  at 
her. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he,  simply,  and 
walked  away.  Miss  Thomas  went  on  with  her 
sewing,  bending  her  head  over  the  work. 
Truly,  thought  Vane,  it  was  not  a  very  manly 
thing  in  him  taunting  her  that  he  had  failed  to 
make  her  love  him.  But  had  he  honestly 
tried  ?  he  questioned  himself,  as  he  walked  up 
and  down  the  piazza  that  evening.  Had  he 
not  rather  put  the  thing  on  a  basis  of  flirtation 
from  the  beginning  ? 

Bah !  he  was  going  back  to  his  old  innocence. 
He  had  definitely  given  her  to  understand  that 
he  had  loved  her,  and  she  had  forced  him  to 
the  utmost  boundary  of  the  explicit,  and  in  his 
foolish  magnanimity  had  made  a  fool  of  him. 
He  had  failed  to  make  her  love  him ;  no  one 
could  make  her  love  until  she  chose,  for 
worldly  reasons  of  her  own,  to  try.  He 
stopped  his  walk  when  next  he  passed  by  the 
place  where  she  was  sitting.  "You  do  not 


Henry  Vane.  185 

seem  to  have  your  old  attention,"  lie  said,  bru- 
tally. He  had  a  way  of  saying  petty  things 
when  with  her,  and  was  conscious  of  it. 

"Why  do  you  think  I  care  for  attention?" 
said  she,  simply. 

"  You  cared  for  mine " 

"You  admit  it?" 

"Like  that  of  any  masculine  unit." 

"  I  used  to  respect  you,  Mr.  Vane.  Pray  do 
not  console  me  for  the  loss  of  your  friendship 
by  showing  me  how  worthless  it  is." 

"  You  seem  to  have  made  that  friendship  of 
mine  for  you  a  matter  of  common  knowledge 
among  the  people  in  this  place." 

"I  have  never  spoken  of  you,  to  any  one 
since  you  left,  last  June." 

There  was  a  ring  of  truth  in  her  words,  but 
Vane  thought  of  Miss  Gibbs  and  her  trivial 
talk.  He  sat  down  in  the  chair  in  front  of 
her. 

There  was  nothing  said  between  them  for  a 
long  time. 

"  You  told  me  then  that  you  had  forgiven 


186  Henry  Vane. 

me.  I  thought  it  was  so  noble  in  you !  for  I 
had  acted  very  wrongly."  Miss  Thomas  was 
rocking  nervously  in  her  chair ;  she  had  a 
handkerchief  in  her  hand  ;  occasionally  in  the 
dark,  she  touched  it  to  her  eyes.  Yane  took 
hold  of  the  end  of  the  handkerchief,  as  it 
drooped  from  her  hand.  "  I  told  you  then  that 
I  would  forgive  you — and  it  was  true,"  he  said. 

"  Then  give  me  your  friendship  back.  I  am 
so  lonely — without  it,"  she  added  in  low  tones. 
Vane  still  held  the  handkerchief,  and  moved 
it  slowly  with  the  rocking,  alternately  drawing 
it  forward  and  letting  it  back ;  a  subtle  femi- 
nine influence  seemed  to  be  in  the  soft  cam- 
bric, and  thrilled  warm  in  his  hand. 

Vane  felt  very  kindly  toward  her  as  he  went 
to  sleep  that  night.  After  all,  she  was  true,  or 
meant  to  be,  at  least.  It  was  not  her  fault, 
but  his,  that  she  had  not  cared  to  be  his  wife. 
And  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  cared  more  for 
his  opinion  of  her  than  for  hers  of  him.  He 
valued  his  faith  in  her  more  than  his  hope  of 
winning  her. 


Henry  Vane.  187 

Again,  he  doubted  if  lie  was  in  love  with 
her  ;  he  doubted  if  he  ever  had  been ;  but  he 
still  felt  for  her  a  sort  of  tender  pity.  Poor, 
lonely,  little  maiden ;  with  all  her  beauty  she 
was  but  a  child  as  yet ;  and  he  had  expected 
from  her  the  knowledge  and  discretion  of  a 
woman  of  the  world.  Yes,  surely,  she  was 
different  from  the  other  girls  in  this  place.  He 
was  glad  that  his  momentary  love  had  calmed 
and  sweetened  into  friendship. 

Vane  himself  asked  her  to  walk  with  him 
the  next  evening,  and  they  went  at  sunset 
through  the  grave  mountain  gorges.  They 
were  both  very  quiet ;  the  man  had  almost 
nothing  to  say.  They  knew  one  another  too 
well  for  ordinary  conversation. 

"Why  are  you  so  silent ?  "  said  she.  "You 
never  used  to  be  so." 

"  Am  I  silent  ?  I  do  not  know  why.  I  sup- 
pose I  make  up  for  having  nothing  to  say 
when  I  am  with  you  by  thinking  of  you  so 
much  when  I  am  away.  There  is  so  much  to 
be  thought,  and  so  little  to  be  said." 


188  Henry  Vane. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  still  think  of  me." 

Vane  looked  at  her  dense  black  hair,  and 
the  soft  shine  of  moisture  in  her  upturned 
eyes.  "  The  thoughts  that  I  cannot  say  are  so 
much  stronger  than  the  things  I  can,  that  they 
overpower  the  others,  and  I  can  say  nothing," 
he  said. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  often  have  imaginary  con- 
versations with  you  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  some  of  them." 

"  I  cannot.  I  should  say  too  much  if  I  said 
anything." 

"Remember  our  compact,  to  be  only 
friends,"  said  Vane,  gravely.  "  Do  not  speak 
as  if  you  were  more  than  a  friend,  or  I  shall 
think  you  less." 

"  I  do  remember  our  compact.  That  is  why 
I  do  not  say  them." 

The  words  sounded  strangely,  but  Vane 
knew  she  was  sincere  when  she  uttered  them. 
When  she  pressed  his  hand  that  night  at  part- 
ing, she  still  managed  to  let  Vane  know  that 
he  was  to  put  no  false  interpretation  on  her 


Henry  Vane.  189 

friendliness.  She  was  a  woman,  and  she  did 
not  know  herself,  he  thought ;  but  she  was  not 
a  girl,  and  she  knew  him. 

A  day  or  two  after  this  they  were  drifting 
under  the  moonlight  on  the  lake.  Her  beauty 
had  never  seemed  so  marvellous  to  Vane  as 
on  that  evening  ;  the  soft  darkness  of  her  hair, 
and  shadowed  light  of  her  blue  eyes,  like  the 
light  of  the  night  sky  with  the  moon  at  the 
zenith.  Her  head  was  drooping  slightly,  and 
one  round  white  arm,  bared  to  the  elbow,  was 
trailing  with  a  tender  ripple  in  the  water. 

"Are  you  never  going  to  marry,  friend  of 
mine  ?  "  said  Vane,  dropping  his  oars  to  look 
at  her. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  I  shall  marry  when  one 
man  asks  me." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  I  have  never  met  him,"  she  muttered, 
dreamily.  "I  have  never  met  but  one  man 
like  him." 

Vane  took  his  oar  again.  "  She  meant  me  to 
think  she  meant  me,"  he  thought,  and  rowed 


190  Henry  Vane. 

vigorously.  She  seemed  unconscious  of  the 
change  of  motion,  and  her  hand,  still  trailing  in 
the  water,  wet  her  white  sleeve.  Vane  stopped 
rowing  and  seated  himself  beside  her.  "  You 
are  wetting  your  arm,"  said  he,  lifting  her 
hand  from  the  water.  She  shall  love  me,  he 
thought  to  himself,  as  he  looked  at  her.  A 
moment  later  he  had  taken  her  hand  in  his, 
and  pushing  the  sleeve  back  from  the  arm 
kissed  it  passionately.  The  woman  made  no 
sign  for  a  moment  or  two ;  then,  as  the  man 
still  held  her  hand,  she  came  to  herself  with  a 
little  shudder.  "  O  don't,  Mr.  Vane,  pray  don't 
— oh,  I  ought  not  to  have  let  you  do  it — oh,  pray 

go  back ."    Vane  left  her  hand  and  looked 

at  her  steadfastly.  "  Oh,  I  ought  not  to  have 
spoken  so,"  she  went  on,  with  a  little  moan, 
"  but  I  pitied  you  so — .  O  Mr.  Vane,  I  was  so 
sorry  for  you,  that  I  forgot ;  and  you  were  look- 
ing at  me,  and  you  seemed  to  care  so  much — 

"You  told  me  of  imaginary  conversations 
you  sometimes  had  with  me,"  said  Vane. 
"  Cannot  you  tell  me  what  they  were  ?  " 


Henry  Vane.  191 

"  Oh,  I  ought  not  to  tell  you,"  said  she, 
breathlessly.  "  Can  we  not  go  home  ?  Will 
you  not  row  me  back  ?  " 

Vane  slowly  resumed  his  seat.  "  We  each 
now  owe  the  other  forgiveness,"  said  he.  "  If 
you  would  try  to  love  me,  I  think  I  would 
wait."  The  girl  in  front  of  him  shuddered 
again,  and  bent  her  head  away,  till  he  saw 
where  her  hair  was  pencilled  into  the  ivory 
neck  ;  then  she  spoke,  slowly  and  simply.  "  I 
have  sometimes  fancied  that  I  could  learn  to 
care  for  you,  Mr.  Vane — not  now,  not  now — 
after  a  great  many  years,  perhaps." 

Vane  was  silent  for  some  minutes.  Then, 
as  they  neared  the  shore,  he  spoke  in  a  clear 
undertone.  "  Will  you  promise  to  tell  me,  if 
you  ever  care  for  any  one  else — if  I  wait,  Miss 
Thomas  ?  " 

She  bowed  her  head  still  lower,  and  Vane 
took  her  hand  again  and  held  it  for  a  moment. 
He  left  in  it  the  old  lace  handkerchief,  still 
burned  at  the  edges.  "  When  you  send  it  back 
to  me,  I  shall  know  what  it  means,"  he  said, 


192  Henry  Vane. 

and  kissed  it.     "  But  while  you  still  keep  it,  I 
shall  hope." 

"  Oh,  I  am  wrong  in  saying  this,"  she  sighed. 
"  I  may  never  care  for  you.  And  yet  in  certain 
ways  I  care  for  you  so  much.  It  seems  some- 
times to  me  that  I  have  no  heart.  I  don't 
think  I  am  worthy  of  you."  She  took  the 
handkerchief  and  put  it  in  her  pocket. 


XXIV. 

rFHEY  walked  back  together.  Vane  felt  a 
J-  year  removed  from  the  happenings  of  the 
last  week,  from  Miss  Morse,  from  all  the  others. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  painted  hotel  were  to  van- 
ish, like  a  stage-setting,  and  he  were  back  in 
Carcassonne  or  Monserrat,  back  with  her.  All 
the  genuine  life  that  he  had  missed  so  long 
was  his :  the  earnestness,  the  simplicity  of 
olden  times.  Now  no  longer  he  asked  himself 
what  there  was  in  America  for  him  to  do. 

In  all  this  there  was  nothing  sentimental ;  it 
was  natural,  real,  radical.  That  he  ever  could 
have  doubted  that  he  was  in  love ! 

What  he  felt  for  Winifred  was  passion,  not 
sentiment,  and  he  gloried  in  it ;  it  was  because 
she  was  a  woman,  after  all,  and  he  a  man,  and 
he  knew  now  that  he  should  win  her. 

There  was  a  certain  splendid  excitement 
13 


194  Henry  Vane. 

about  Vane's  life  that  autumn.  It  was  all  so 
real  to  him  now.  The  solution  had  come  of 
itself.  He  was  not  yet  her  lover,  formally  ac- 
cepted, but  he  felt  that  he  was  her  lover  in 
fact  and  truth.  He  was  continually  with  her ; 
following  her  to  Newport  when  she  went  there 
for  a  month,  late  in  October.  She  not  only 
suffered  him  to  be  with  her ;  she  suffered  him 
(as  a  woman  may,  impalpably)  to  love  her; 
even,  now  and  then,  to  show  his  love  for  her, 
as  when  he  took  her  hand,  or  walked  with  her 
in  autumn  evenings  by  the  sea.  Now  and  then 
she  would  repulse  him,  telling  him  that  he 
must  not  be  confident  of  her ;  that  it  was  only 
to  be  after  many  years ;  but  her  repulses  grew 
fainter  and  less  frequent.  It  did  not,  even 
then,  seem  to  Vane  as  if  he  were  teaching  her 
to  love ;  she  was  too  sympathetic ;  she  felt  too 
quickly  and  too  closely  every  impulse  of  his 
own ;  his  passion  was  too  readily  reflected  in 
the  flush  or  paleness  of  her  face.  Rather  was 
she  herself  the  mistress,  Vane  the  scholar. 
Nothing  he  said  or  sighed  seemed  to  take  her 


Henry  Vane.  195 

by  surprise,  to  be  unappreciated  by  her.     He 
augured  well  from  this. 

When  a  woman  admits  that  she  may  come  to 
like  a  man  in  time,  she  means  that  she  already 
loves  him,  but  is  not  quite  ready  for  marriage. 
It  was  a  more  dangerous  footing,  their  intimacy 
on  these  terms,  than  if  their  troth  had  been 
fairly  plighted.  The  man  sought  persistently 
to  win  new  concessions,  to  force  further  con- 
fessions ;  the  woman,  having  made  the  one  ad- 
mission, could  but  half  resist.  It  brought 
about  a  new  declaration  of  his  passion  every 
day ;  pale,  she  listened  to  the  torrent  of  his 
words,  now  faintly  chiding,  now  looking  va- 
cantly out  to  sea.  The  worn  voices  of  the 
ocean  gave  might  and  earnestness  to  his  plead- 
ing, and  filled,  with  its  own  grave  majesty,  his 
broken  pauses.  Her  hand  would  grow  cold  as 
it  lay  between  his  own,  and  she  sat  silent; 
until,  with  a  start  of  self-reproach,  she  would 
regain  her  knowledge  of  the  present  and  make 
him  lead  her  back  among  the  streets  and 
houses. 


196  Henry  Vane. 

Vane  went  occasionally,  for  a  few  days,  to 
the  city,  to  look  after  the  affairs  of  his  bank. 
The  closing  of  his  contract  with  Welsh,  who 
finally  paid  to  the  firm  nearly  a  million,  and  the 
reinvestment  of  this  money,  took  much  time. 
Vane  had  never  been  a  better  man  of  business 
than  when  he  decided  on  these  matters,  think- 
ing, with  a  thrill  in  his  strong  body,  of  the 
meeting,  next  day,  and  the  long  afternoon  to 
be  passed  on  the  shore  with  the  woman  that 
he  loved.  Some  days  Vane  would  not  go  near 
her ;  he  was  still  careful  not  to  incur  comment ; 
he  could  control  himself.  But  hardly  any  one 
was  left  in  Newport  now,  and  their  walks  far 
out  upon  the  cliffs  had  generally  escaped  the 
notice  of  the  world. 


XXV. 

SHE  came  back  to  the  city  in  November,  but 
in  the  last  of  the  month  again  Vane  per- 
suaded her  to  go  to  Newport  and  spend  a 
week  when  he  could  be  there  all  the  time. 
She  had  an  old  aunt  there  at  whose  house  she 
visited;  Vane  had  his  permanent  lodgings; 
and  this  was  before  the  time  when  many 
people  stayed  there  through  the  winter.  Vane 
had  urged  her  to  let  him  meet  her  at  the 
southern  extremity  of  the  island,  where  the 
long  ledges  of  rock  run  out  to  the  reef;  but 
sometimes  she  would  bid  him  walk  thither 
with  her,  and  would  even  seem  to  like  to  have 
the  notice  of  the  town.  They  had  given  up 
their  reading  by  this  time,  and  their  small  talk 
had  long  since  ceased.  Early  in  the  autumn 
they  had  begun  with  the  Vita  Nuova ;  but  even 
Dante's  words  had  seemed  weak  to  him,  and 
after  a  few  days  the  books  had  been  thrown 
aside.  She  had  not  urged  him  to  go  on  with 


198  Henry  Vane. 

them.  Every  day,  rain  or  storm,  this  late 
week  in  autumn,  they  would  skirt  the  cliffs,  by 
the  gardens  with  a  few  geraniums  or  pansies 
still  drooping  in  the  trim  parterres,  and  go  far 
out  along  the  southern  coves  and  beaches, 
where  the  full  pulse  of  the  Atlantic  rolled  in 
from  the  Indies.  Vane  had  tried  every  day  to 
win  the  final  word;  but  all  his  passion  had 
not  done  more  than  force  her  to  seek  refuge  in 
silence.  This  last  day  she  had  opened  her 
lips  once  or  twice  to  speak,  after  a  long  pause, 
and  then  pressed  them  again  together.  Vane 
always  walked  a  yard  or  two  from  her  side, 
and  looked  at  her  fairly  when  he  spoke.  She 
would  not  sit  down  with  him  that  day;  so 
they  went  on,  mile  after  mile,  along  a 
still,  gray  sea.  The  sky  was  cloudy,  the 
waters  had  an  oily  look;  and  the  waves 
were  convex  and  smooth  until  they  broke, 
creaming  about  the  sharp  rocks.  Vane  made 
another  trial,  just  before  they  left  the  ocean  to 
turn  inland.  She  seemed  to  feel  that  she 
ought  to  speak,  then,  but  yet  could  only  look 


Henry  Vane.  199 

at  him  with  her  large  blue  eyes,  the  pupils 
slightly  dilated.  At  last,  just  as  she  was  leav- 
ing him,  "  Come  to  see  me,  in  a  month,  in  New 
York,"  she  said. 

Vane  went  back  that  night  and  kept  himself 
very  busy.  He  heard  little  from  Miss  Thomas 
during  the  time  except  that  she  had  not  re- 
turned from  Newport.  She  would  never  write 
to  him  since  the  June  last  past,  though  he  had 
often  begged  her  to  do  so.  On  the  afternoon 
before  Christmas  Eve,  at  five  o'clock,  he  called 
at  her  house.  The  room  was  just  as  he  re- 
membered it  the  year  before — if  anything,  a 
little  more  shabby.  She  was  standing  alone  as 
if  she  expected  him.  She  was  dressed  in  a  gown 
that  he  remembered,  and  looked  younger  and 
more  like  her  old  self  than  she  had  seemed  at 
Newport.  She  was  smiling  as  he  entered,  but 
though  the  smile  did  not  enter  her  eyes,  they 
were  not  deep.  She  held  something  in  her 
hand,  which,  as  Yane  approached,  she  ex- 
tended to  him.  "I  want  to  give  you  back 
your  handkerchief,"  she  said.  "I  have  felt 


200  Henry  Vane. 

that  I  ought  to  for  a  long  time.  I  wanted  to 
do  so  at  Newport,  but  I  could  not  bring  myself 
to  do  it  then." 

Vane  stopped  in  his  walk  to  look  at  her. 
"  You  mean  that  you  love  some  one  else  ?  " 

Miss  Thomas  bent  her  head  a  hair's  breadth. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  simply. 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Mr.  TenEyck." 

"  Are  you  engaged  to  him  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Have  you  told  him  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  When  are  you  going  to  tell  him  ?  " 

"In  a  day  or  two." 

Vane  gave  a  heavy  sigh.  Miss  Thomas  sank 
in  a  chair,  looking  at  the  fire,  the  handkerchief 
still  in  her  hand. 

"I  thank  you  for  telling  me  first,"  said 
Vane.  He  turned  to  go. 

"You  have  forgotten  your  handkerchief," 
said  she.  Vane  went  back  to  get  it,  avoiding 
the  touch  of  her  hand.  Then  he  turned  again, 


Henry  Vane.  201 

and  the  outer  door  closed  behind  him,  Miss 
Thomas  still  looking  at  the  fire.  It  was  a 
rainy  night  and  there  had  been  snow  pre- 
viously. As  Vane  crossed  Fifth  Avenue  he 
threw  the  handkerchief  into  a  pool  of  mire. 

He  went  to  his  lodgings  to  shave  and  dress 
for  dinner.  His  hand  trembled,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  was  very  angry.  He  took  din- 
ner at  his  club,  and  smoked  a  cigar  afterward 
with  a  friend,  and  drank  a  bottle  of  Bur- 
gundy. 

"  "What  has  become  of  Ten  Eyck  this  last 
month  ?  "  asked  Vane,  carelessly,  in  the  course 
of  the  evening. 

"He's  been  at  Newport  lately,"  said  the 
other.  "  He's  just  got  back." 

Vane  went  to  bed  rather  early  and  slept 
heavily.  It  was  unusual  for  him  to  take  so 
much  wine.  But  he  did  not  dream  of  Miss 
Thomas.  In  the  morning  he  felt  that  he  had 
got  over  it,  and  he  walked  down  town  to  his 
office.  It  was  a  clear  winter's  day,  sharp  and 
bright.  They  were  closing  up  the  banking 


202  Henry  Vane. 

accounts  for  the  year,  and  he  worked  hard  all 
the  morning.  He  might  now  call  himself  very 
rich.  He  was  an  infinitely  better  match  than 
Ten  Eyck.  She  must  have  loved  him  all  along 
— from  the  very  beginning,  thought  he.  He 
was  very  indignant  with  her.  But  in  the  after- 
noon, even  this  feeling  seemed  to  grow  less 
strong.  She  was  a  woman,  after  all.  He  could 
not  blame  her.  He  had  been  angry  last  night, 
but  now  he  felt  that  he  could  understand  her. 
He  almost  liked  her  the  better  for  it.  She  had 
been  true  to  herself  and  her  first  love.  He 
might  have  wished  the  same  thing  himself. 
Vane  almost  felt  a  pride  in  his  discovery  of 
her  nature.  He  had  called  her  a  woman  from 
the  beginning.  It  was  the  fashion  to  decry 
American  girls.  She  was  different  from  a  girl. 
She  was  a  true  woman — a  woman  like  Cleo- 
patra or  like  Helen.  Had  he  first  won  her, 
she  would  have  been  true  to  him.  He  argued 
savagely  with  himself,  defending  her. 

He  worked  rapidly,  and  by  noon  the  accounts 
were  done.  It  was  Christmas  Eve.  Toward  eve'n- 


Henry  Vane.  203 

ing  the  sky  became  gray,  with  flakes  of  snow  in 
the  air.  Vane  walked  up  to  Central  Park,  and 
returned  to  dress  for  dinner.  Where  was  he 
to  dine  ?  The  club  was  the  best  place  to  meet 
people.  His  lodgings  were  dark,  and  he  had 
some  difficulty  in  finding  a  match;  then  he 
dropped  one  of  his  shirt  studs  on  the  floor  and 
had  to  grope  for  it.  Another  one  broke,  and 
he  threw  open  the  drawer  of  his  shaving-stand, 
impatiently,  to  find  one  to  replace  it.  Lying  in 
the  (Drawer  was  an  old  revolver  he  had  brought 
back  from  Minnesota  two  years  before.  He 
took  it  out,  placed  the  muzzle  at  his  chest,  and 
drew  the  trigger.  As  he  fell  on  the  floor,  he 
turned  once  over  upon  his  side,  holding  up  his 
hands  before  his  eyes. 


So  John  ended  his  story.  Of  course  he  told 
it  much  less  elaborately,  that  evening  in  the 
club,  than  I  have  written  it  here.  I  suppose  I 
have  told  it  more  as  if  I  were  a  novelist,  trying 
to  write  a  story.  John  gave  the  facts  briefly; 


204  Henry  Fane. 

but  he  described  Vane's  character  pretty  care- 
fully, even  to  his  thoughts,  as  he  had  known 
the  man  so  intimately.  Most  of  these  descrip- 
tions I  have  tried  to  reproduce.  And  he  ended 
the  story  as  I  have  ended  it,  even  to  the  very 
words.  It  was  a  story  six  years  old  when  he 
told  it  to  us  ;  the  man  was  forgotten,  and  the 
girl  was  married.  His  suicide  was  at  first 
ascribed  to  financial  difficulties,  and  the  excite- 
ment soon  subsided  when  his  banking  accounts 
were  shown  to  be  correct. 

I  do  not  remember  that  there  was  very  much 
said  when  John  got  through.  It  was  very  late 
at  night ;  most  of  the  men  were  sleepy  and  we 
all  had  to  be  down  town  early  in  the  morning. 
There  was,  indeed,  a  silence  for  some  time. 

Finally  the  Major  drew  a  long  breath. 
"Well,"  said  he,  "my  opinion  remains  the 
same." 

"  And  mine."  "And  mine,"  chimed  in  voices. 

"  The  man  was  a  fool,"  said  Schuyler,  simply. 

"It  was  cowardly  to  shoot  himself,"  said 
Daisy  Blake. 


Henry  Vane.  205 

"  And  to  shoot  himself  for  a  girl !  "  cried 
Schuyler.  "  Just  think  what  a  fellow  may  do 
with  fifty  thousand  a  year ! " 

"  She  was  a  woman,"  said  John. 

"  Was  she  a  woman  ?  that  is  just  the  ques- 
tion," said  the  Major. 

"The  question,"  said  another  man,  who  had 
not  yet  spoken,  "  is  whether  he  really  loved 
Baby  Thomas — or  the  English  girl,  after  all." 
This  was  a  new  view  of  the  case ;  and  a 
moment's  silence  followed. 

"  No  man,  to  see  Mrs.  Malgam  now,  would 
think  a  fellow  had  shot  himself  for  her,"  said 
another. 

"  How  does  she  come  to  be  Mrs.  Malgam  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Malgam  is  her  second  husband,"  said 
Blake.  "  She  has  grown  tremendously  fat." 

"Well,  good-night,"  said  the  Major,  ris- 
ing. 

"Speaking  of  fifty  thousand  a  year,  how 
much  did  Vane  really  leave?"  said  Schuyler  to 
John. 

"  A  million  and  a  half,  I  believe." 


206  Henry  Vane. 

"  Whew ! "  said  Schuyler ;  "  I  had  no  idea  of 
that." 

"  The  granger  roads  dropped  half  a  point, 
when  his  death  was  known,"  said  the  Major, 
putting  on  his  coat. 


THE  END. 


STORIES  BY  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


Bound  in  Cloth,  5O  cents  per  Volume. 


"  The  American  short  Btory  has  a  distinct  artistic  quality.  It  has 
the  directness  of  narrative  and  careful  detail  of  the  best  French  nov- 
elettes, with  an  added  flexibility  that  is  peculiar  to  itself.  It  has 
humor,  too.  Each  one  of  the  tales  is  a  masterpiece,  and,  taken 
together,  they  afford  delightful  entertainment  for  leisure  half  hours. 
All  may  be  read  more  than  once."— .Boston  Traveler. 


THE  FISST  VOLUME  CONTAINS: 

Who  Was  She  ?  ...  By  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 
The  Documents  in  the  Case.  By  BRANDEK  MATTHEWS 

and  H.  C.  BUNKER. 

One  of  the  Thirty  Pieces.      .  By  W.  H.  BISHOP. 

Balacchi  Brothers.  .  By  REBECCA  HARDING  DAVIS. 
An  Operation  in  Money.  .  By  ALBERT  WEBSTER. 

THE  SECOND  VOLUME  CONTAINS: 

The  Transferred  Ghost.  .  By  FRANK  R.  STOCKTON. 
A  Martyr  to  Science.  By  MARY  PTJTNAM-JACOBI,  M.D. 
Mrs.  Knollys.  .  .  By  the  Author  of  "Querndale." 

A  Dinner-Party By  JOHN  EDDY. 

The  Mount  of  Sorrow. 

By  HARRIETT  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 
Sister  Silvia.       ...       By  MARY  AGNES  TINCKER. 


For  sale  by  oil  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of 
price,  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  Publishers, 
743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


STORIES  BY  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


THE    THIRD    VOLUME    CONTAINS: 

The  Spider's  Eye.        .        .         By  LTJCRETIA  P.  HALB. 
A  Story  of  the  Latin  Quarter. 

By  Mrs.  FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT. 
Two  Purse  Companions.  By  GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 
Poor  Ogla-Moga.  ...  By  DAVID  D.  LLOYD. 
A  Memorable  Murder.  .  .  By  CELIA  THAXTER. 
Venetian  Glass.  .  .  By  BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 

THE   FOURTH    VOLUME    CONTAINS: 

Miss  Grief.  .  By  CONSTANCE  FENIMORE  WOOLSON. 
Love  in  Old  Oloathes.  .  .  .  By  H.  C.  BONNER. 
Two  Buckets  in  a  Well.  .  .  .  By  N.  P.  WILLIS. 
Friend  Barton's  Concern.  .  By  MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE. 
An  Inspired  Lobbyist.  .  .  By  J.  W.  DE  FOREST. 
Lost  in  the  Fog.  ...  By  NOAH  BROOKS. 
In  Future  Volumes  the  following  writers,  besides  many 
others,  will  be  represented : 

HENRY  JAMES,  EDWARD  BELLAMY,  FITZ  JAMES 
O'BRIEN,  F.  D.  MILLET,  E.  P.  MITCHELL,  Mrs.  LINA 
REDWOOD  FAIRFAX,  The  Author  of  "The  Village 
Convict,"  JAMES  T.  McKAY,  Miss  VIRGINIA  W. 
JOHNSON,  Mrs.  L.  W.  CHAMPNEY. 


For  salt  by  oil  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of 
price,  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  Publishers, 
743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


RETURNED 


JAN  26  1997 


